The Travesty of Human Fallibility
by evizyt
Summary: "You do that for a lot of men, Granger?" He spat, his eyes glittering dangerously. "Return favors?" Irrationality was rising in her like a tide. The street was empty... Anything could happen. HDr. SEQUEL UP!
1. Chapter 1

Where Draco Malfoy was concerned, Hermione Granger, the invincible, was fallible. A drunken nights leads to an unexpected consequence. Five years later, Malfoy comes back in to the picture...

_A/N: Thus begins our next big journey together, fellows. Let the curtains be thrown aside, to reveal!: _

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**The Travesty of Human Fallibility**

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Where Draco Malfoy was concerned, Hermione Granger, the invincible, was fallible. A drunken night leads to an unexpected consequence. Five years later, Malfoy comes back into the picture…

Believe it or not—and most people don't—it was a long time ago, to this day, that a certain Hermione Granger first, ah, _connected_, with one Draco Malfoy.

—_his hand touched her cheek—her fingers running through his hair—his hands on her back—lips on her neck—her arms around him—his weight, crushing her_

There are certain truths about a person that are applicable in all situations. Harry Potter, regardless of the place or people, would unfailingly come through with an appropriate act of well-timed and cleanly executed heroism. Ron Weasley would be unfailingly and staunchly by his side, through thin and thick, through rain or snow, for better or (very rarely) for worse.

Hermione Granger did not drink. A few indulgences of butterbeer during her schooling days notwithstanding, Hermione Granger had never experienced the pleasure, or the horror, of hard alcohol. While many, if not all, would commonly consider this a rather virtuous and generally appallingly self-righteous trait, it did have an occasional downfall. That being, Hermione Granger also had no idea what it tasted like.

And so it was, that several years ago, on this certain occasion—one of those ministry functions that everyone always seemed to be required to attend, even though nothing of interest ever occurred—one of Hermione's greatest virtues was to become her greatest downfall.

She was hovering on the fringes, ordering butterbeers and little tonic cocktails to keep her hands occupied.

"Extra olives, please," she asked the bartender politely, her posh British accent so thick you could cut it with a knife. She was handing him a tip when she was rudely interrupted and brushed aside.

"Allow me," a deep voice said. Her hand was unceremoniously knocked back to her side, and she thought she saw a shiny gold galleon disappear in to the bartender's fist. "A lady should never have to buy her own drink," the man continued, and Hermione whirled around, intent on scolding Harry or Ron, or whoever it was.

She stopped abruptly, mid-whirl, to find Draco Malfoy mockingly offering her an innocent looking tonic and lime. "Malfoy," she snapped, awkwardly and abruptly. She reached for the drink.

—_her breasts brush his chest—her hands in his hair—his mouth on hers—her breath on his face_

"Now, Granger, is that how you repay an act of kindness?" He drawled. "I don't know how you were brought up, but…"

"Shut up," she said, making another pass for the drink. He simply lifted it a little higher, and she refused to give him the pleasure of watching her jump. "Fine," she muttered, turning away and refusing to engage. Spotting Harry and Ron over at the far end of the ballroom, she began to make a beeline in their direction. What in the world did Malfoy think he was doing?

"Sooth, take your damn drink," he called as she began to walk. He closed the distance between them, and thrust the small glass in to her hands, narrowly avoiding spilling its contents. Glaring, Hermione grabbed it and upended it, swallowing the contents in a single gulp. It tasted sort of odd, she noticed idly, but she was too busy thinking about Malfoy's odd behavior to worry about the lime being off.

"Uh, thanks?" She managed, and then began to walk again. That had really hurt her throat. The other drinks hadn't tasted like that. But she could think of no logical reason for anything in that specific one to have changed at all, except for the fact that Malfoy—was now standing right in front of her, blocking her path.

"Walk with me for a minute on the balcony, Granger."

"How about no?" She said childishly.

"Come now, we're both adults here. My department head wants connections in St. Mungos."

—_his lips on hers—his hands in her dress—stone scrapes her back—soft skin_

"Good for him, then he can talk to me," Hermione grumbled, but the mention of her job made her ears perk.

"Actually…" Malfoy paused, knowing this would win her over. "He was also interested in, ah, I think, the matter of _funding_…" He trailed off delicately.

Hermione eyed him suspiciously. "You have five…" she swayed, momentarily losing her train of thought. The room spun. "…minutes." She finished, righting herself with an almost imperceptible shake of her head.

"Allow me," Malfoy said, eyes gleaming. "Another drink? Ice water, I think."

"Yes, yes, that would be lovely," Hermione murmured, feeling distracted and vaguely nauseous, and allowed herself to be led out on to the balcony, nursing another strangely flavored drink.

Now let it be said, Hermione Granger is not an idiot. She was the smartest witch in her year, and the best healer at St. Mungos. She was not stupid. But then…neither was Draco Malfoy.

—_his hands running up her arms—her fingers tracing his jaw—his hands on her waist—lips on her neck—her nails on his belt_

Hermione woke up the next morning smelling like sex, with a headache to rival Satan.

"Fuck," she said eloquently, and went back to bed. It may have been the first time she called in sick in her entire life.

—_his fingers—her curls falling around her head—her fingers—his breath on her mouth_

She didn't remember much, but a few weeks later, she remembered enough to buy one of those muggle pregnancy tests.

"Fuck," she repeated, upon seeing the little blue positive sign. "Why me?"

She didn't know why it had happened, or how, and she could barely remember when. Memories were vague and hard to come by. She had been very drunk (he had made sure,) and he must have been too, to have done…what he did.

For a while, she simply sat on the toilet, pants around her ankles, letting the vivid emotions run their course.

There was anger, plenty of that. Anger at him, for beginning it, allowing it, and completing it. Anger at herself, for being so stupid, for not realizing, for forgetting the consequences, and, finally, for forgetting contraception. Then there was curiosity, curiosity and despair and indecision. A heaping share of embarrassment, shame, and loneliness completed the package, with a healthy sprinkling of confusion.

For once in her life, Hermione Granger had no idea what to do.

So she did the only mature thing one could do in the situation, chalked it up to alcohol and hormones, and decided to move on with her life.

—_his teeth on her skin—his fingers under her dress—her head flung back—his stubble on her neck—his weight, crushing her_

It was probably the hardest thing she'd ever had to do. Her parents were unquestionably first, her friends second. Each time, it was the same.

"…and I'm keeping it, too," she would ultimately announce, after fully explaining the situation, ignoring the shock written across the faces in front of her. And that would be that.

Her friends were surprised. Hermione Granger was not your normal candidate for an unintentional pregnancy. However, there was an aspect of her that was suited to the single mother lifestyle. She was uptight, nitpicky, high energy, and completely insane. It was a good match.

Most shocking, however, was her parents' reaction. They were _happy._ Her mother had wanted her to keep the baby.

"I won't deny that it will be hard, and you'll hate me sometimes, and you'll curse yourself for your stupidity. But Hermione, having a child is one of the most amazing things I've ever done. It really is a little miracle, your very own little miracle, and it changes women. It grows them up. For a while, dear, I'd been worried that you would never have that joy, that you would let your career consume you, and that you would never find love. But now you have the opportunity—sent in the form of a little miracle—and you really shouldn't let it pass you by."

Hermione wasn't sure how to react. At first she almost felt betrayed; wasn't her mother supposed to be a staunch feminist, railing on her for devastating her life and career? Instead, here was her solemn, sensible, and successful dentist mother telling her to hold out for love.

Eventually, though, she heeded the advice. She was lonely at night sometimes. It wasn't like she couldn't support another little mouth, and, in all honesty, Hermione Granger had yet to meet a challenge she couldn't surmount. Having a child was, in some twisted way in the corner of her mind, a challenge.

Besides…she kind of wanted it.

She had considered abortion, she really had. She wasn't opposed to it, and if she had really wanted it, then that would have been fine. But some hidden part of her maternal instinct kicked in. She was twenty two. She could care for a child if she wanted to, and she did.

She kept the baby.

—_him—on her. _


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Yay! Hooray! Another chapter, so soon? And so long, too! HUGE SUPERMASSIVE THANKS to ALL my reviewers!! You were my motivation to pop this out! (Anyone get the song reference? Supermassive?...?)

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**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

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"Sir, I'm sorry, but—" A frazzled Hermione Granger, rushing down the hallway of St. Mungos, tried to explain to a man why he couldn't see his wife.

"I simply don't understand—if all the precautions are taken—"

"Sir, the risk is simply too great." They had arrived at the door to her office. "Her white blood cell count is so low that even Healers and trainees are minimized. I'm afraid you will have to wait." With that, she entered the other room and shut the door with a _snap_.

The blonde witch sitting at a desk in her outer room smiled. "Healer Granger, three new memos and two owls arrived while you were out. The board of directors has changed the meeting time this afternoon from four to four thirty, Healer Wallace would like to speak with you about a muggle technique of blood transfusions, and Healer Ford has been assigned a case he wants you to take a look at, if not take over entirely." She paused for breath. She followed Hermione in to the inner office, (or sanctum, as Hermione called it privately,) placing a stack of paperwork on her desk.

"Thank you, Ida," Hermione interrupted. "Tell Sarah I'll meet her for lunch and tell Jim I'll squeeze his patient in after my operation at one thirty. In the mean time, I would _love_ a cup of coffee."

"Right here," Ida laughed, retrieving a cup from somewhere and handing it to Hermione. "These," she patted the generous mound of paperwork, "are the papers for Jones and Ellis, both of whom, as you know, were released this morning. You also have here the preliminary paperwork for Travis, Waters, and even Ford's patient, Leroy."

"You're fantastic. Was there anything else?"

"Yes, the two owls. Both were personal—one from Mr. and Mrs. Potter and the other from your mother."

Hermione grinned, feeling the tension leave her shoulders. "Thank you!"

Harry and Ginny were writing to invite her to dinner on Sunday. She checked her watch—still Friday—and hastily penciled it in to her calendar. In addition to the weekly Saturday brunch at the Weasleys', her Saturday evening gathering with Ron, Harry, and a few other odd school friends, and her Sunday morning breakfast with her parents, things were looking packed. That wasn't even taking in to account the numerous errands she had to run…

Her mother's was simply a daily chat letter. She had decided to cut her hair…her father wanted a new car…the cat had an ill spell. Regarding the last, Hermione hastily wrote up a section of instructions on care, and cautioned her mother to see a vet if the animal didn't improve.

She took a sip of her coffee, tucking the letters away in a drawer reserved for friends and family. Tying her hair back, she took a deep breath and plunged in to the paperwork.

&&&

Hours later, Hermione gratefully massaged her calves, tucking her heels behind her desk. With a final sigh of pleasure, she wiggled her feet in to a pair of beat-up sneakers. Untying her hair from its bun and grabbing her bag, she fled the office.

"Goodbye Healer Granger!" Ida chirped at her retreating back. Hermione turned to reply, saw the time, and bolted for the apparition point.

Today had been long and arduous, but not unusually so. Being a Healer was a demanding job, made more so by the time constraints of being a single mother.

"Damnit," Hermione muttered to herself. "Late again!" With a pop, she disapparated.

She reappeared in the alley across the street from Mauve's Daycare, in the center of muggle London. Scurrying quickly across the road, she rapped smartly on the door. It was opened by a statuesque older woman, with gray hair swept back in to an elegant bun, and clothes that barely looked a whisper out of place.

"Ah, Miss Granger. Late again?" She was a muggle, and yet Hermione could recall being more intimidated only by Professor McGonagall.

Suddenly aware of her rather disheveled and haphazard appearance, Hermione gasped out a reply. "I'm so sorry, Miss Mauve, I can assure you…" she trailed off. "Is Ophelia ready to leave?"

"She has been waiting in the drawing room." Miss Mauve drew back, allowing Hermione inside the stately house. Hermione was always mildly surprised that the woman had decided to run a daycare, of all things. But she never regretted choosing Mauve. She had the best hours, the nicest facilities, and Hermione imagined that she kept the children well under control.

A little bundle hurtled in to her upon her entry to the drawing room. "MAMA!" _Keeps the _other_ children under control, at least,_ Hermione mentally amended herself.

"Ophelia," she cooed happily, sweeping her baby girl up into her arms. "I'm sorry I was late again, sweets."

"S'okay Mama, just as long as we get ice creams on da way home," Ophelia said solemnly, tripping over the 'th.'

Hermione shook her head, laughing, and propped Ophelia comfortably against her hip. "Pretty soon you're going to get to big to carry," she threatened teasingly. "I'm going to have to tie a brick on your head to stunt your growth!"

Ophelia puffed her chest out proudly. "I'm a big girl now."

"You are indeed," Hermione agreed absently, brushing a curl off the angelic face. "Let's get you home, big girl." She found Miss Mauve waiting in the hallway. After apologizing briefly and assuring her it wouldn't happen again, she bid her a good weekend and apparated Ophelia home.

It was almost seven by the time they entered the flat, and Hermione cringed. Normally, she picked Ophelia up at six on Wednesdays and Fridays.

"Ready for some din-din?" She cooed, setting Ophelia down to wander.

"Wanna ice creams."

"Ice creams come after dinner and a bath," Hermione admonished. "Go wash your hands, and I'll make something to eat."

"Fee no wanna wash hands. Wanna eat ice creams!" Ophelia stomped her foot pettishly, looking ready to cry. Hermione ran her hands through her hair exasperatedly. It was clear Ophelia was tired after a long day. Sometimes she just wished the child wasn't so stubborn.

"Now Ophelia, remember to act like a big girl," Hermione began, but Ophelia scampered away.

"Don't want dinner or baf! Wanna ice creams!"

Hermione sighed. "Ophelia!" She dropped her bag on the kitchen table, running after Ophelia. "Young lady, stop this right now," she said firmly as she entered the bedroom. Ophelia shrieked at her and jumped on to the bed.

"NO WANNA BAF! WANNA ICE CREAMS!"

"Bath time," Hermione cooed, but there was steel underneath the soft tone.

"NO!" Hermione clutched her eardrums at the sheer pitch and volume.

"Ophelia, darling, stop this—"

"WANNA ICE CREAMS," Ophelia wailed. Hermione's patience was wearing thin. Ophelia was beautifully behaved and pleasant most of the time, but four year olds were a tough breed.

"I have spoiled you atrociously," she muttered grumpily.

Ophelia merely shrieked in response, running around the room with her shirt over her head. "NO WANNA BAF! NO!"

"Stop," Hermione said, attempting to catch her. Ophelia wailed. Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Wanna—"

"_SILENCE, NOW!_"

"Mama—"

"I _said_, be quiet," Hermione snapped, dangerously close to losing her temper completely, and Ophelia ceased wailing and running, plopped down on to the ground, and began to cry.

"Where did you get those lungs from?" Hermione wondered in exasperation. "You sure can bellow."

After much wrangling, some shameless bribing, and roughly five stories, Ophelia quieted and allowed herself to be put to bed. By then it was past nine, and it was all Hermione could do not to pass out on her feet.

She lay on the couch with a cup of herbal tea and some left over work forms, idly pondering Ophelia's presence in her life.

It had been with a sense of ironic humor—for Hermione was nothing if not artfully sarcastic—that she had chosen the name for her beautiful girl.

She had decided on Ophelia for the first name. It was a name born of tragedy, stolen from a Shakespearean tragedy in which the lovely girl had been rankly abused. Somehow, it seemed fitting for a child born of a single night of nonconsensual sex. In fairness, however, it was the middle name that was the ironic part. With a sense of tribute to the man who had (if unintentionally, unwarrantedly, and most of all unwelcomely) donated half of the genes, she settled on Cassiopeia.

Ophelia Cassiopeia Granger had a nice ring to it.

She had wondered if she would regret giving the child a name that could remind her of Malfoy. She ultimately decided she was being foolish—every time she looked at Ophelia she would be reminded of Malfoy, so she might as well admit to herself that he was, actually, a contributor to her creation.

"You're not naming her after a famous Greek?" Her mother had asked curiously. "I thought…after we named you…"

"Helen, dear, she can name her child whatever she wants."

"I know! I was just curious. Which play is Ophelia from, anyways?"

Hermione had watched her parents bicker from her hospital bed, smilingly tiredly.

"How should I know? I'm a dentist for a reason." Steve Granger had smiled too, the pleasant, proud sort of smile, and Helen joined him in front of Hermione's bed. They were a beautiful pair, tall and elegant, with kindly faces and a sense of graceful aging.

Hermione had basked contentedly in the warmth, the love emanating from her parents and from the little bundle snuggled against her chest.

"Mum," she remembered murmuring sleepily. "I'm glad I decided to keep the baby. I think it's really going to be great. It really is."

"It will be," Steve had eagerly volunteered. "You'll make it great, honey. You can do anything."

Whenever Hermione had a hard day, of Ophelia was being particularly contrary—as two and three and four year olds are apt to be—she thought back o that moment, her proud parents, and their small happy family. There had been many happy moments along the years.

"Harry, Ron, I have an important question for you," she said solemnly, grinning despite her tone. They looked baffled.

"Anything," Harry said. "Just as long as we get to meet her soon!"

"Well, first I have to ask you something." She paused. "Will you be Ophelia's joint godfathers?"

They gaped. "Of course!" Ron cried.

"I-Is that even a question?" Harry stammered. They both bent down to hug her, and she flung her arms around them.

"Are you crying…oh, here, ah, you can use my handkerchief…" Ron fumbled around, eventually offering her something that may have once resembled a handkerchief.

"Thank you," Hermione said gracefully, and proceeded to thoroughly blow her nose. "Well, they should be bringing her back any minute. Why don't you go get everyone else, Harry, I'm sure all the Weasleys are dying to see her as well."

Harry bowed out, leaving her alone with Ron. He shuffled, grinning awkwardly and adorably, but Hermione thought she detected a hint of sadness in his eyes.

"You know," he began slowly, and she braced herself. "I had thought for a while, you know, that we might really last… But, you're not really that type, are you?" It was a rhetorical question, so she merely waited quietly for him to continue. She knew that he was genuinely happy for her, but he also had to get this off his chest, and better now than never. "I mean, you're so amazing, and driven, and really, I… I guess I…"

"Ron," she broke in. "It wasn't your fault, and you know that."

"I know," he said, and he was smiling. "I just wanted you to know that it wasn't yours, either." Her heart nearly broke from the pure sweetness of it all. "I'm happy for you Hermione, I really am. You may not have wanted, or planned, on a baby, but that's the beauty of it. Sometimes it's good to have things happen that you didn't pencil in to your calendar."

Hermione snorted at this. "Well, I'm in no danger of that now, that's for sure!" She reached out, taking Ron's hand. "I hate feeling like such an invalid, confined to this bed. Thank you for visiting me. Thank you for _understanding_."

Very carefully (and she could see that the tips of his ears had turned red,) he bent down and kissed her cheek. Then, he awkwardly patted her hand, and a knock on the door signaled the arrival of the rest of the Weasleys.

"Hermione!" Came Ginny's telltale squeal. "There's a nurse out here with a precious burden that very much wants to see you!"

Hermione smiled at the memories. Ophelia loved Harry, Ginny, and all her Weasley cousins and "nuncles." She was incredibly lucky to have all these fabulous friends. Their support and advice throughout had been invaluable.

"GINNY!" Hermione shrieked, banging on the door. "HELP!"

"Hermione—what's going on?" Ginny flung open the door in a nightgown, looking terrified.

"It's Ophelia, she's crying and won't stop, and she's not sick, but she looks like she's in such pain… Oh, Ginny…" At this point, Hermione, having gotten no sleep for the past 52 hours, broke down in to sobs.

"Here, now Hermione, there, don't cry, let me see," Ginny patted her back soothingly, taking a bawling Ophelia from her arms. Harry had appeared at the top of the stairs, looking rumpled and baffled.

"Herm…it's three in the morning…Gin? What's wrong?"

Ginny shook her head, indicating that now was not the time. She proceeded to carefully examine Ophelia. "Oh Hermione… oh, Hermione…"

"What! Is it bad?" Hermione grasped her hair, eyes bulging.

Ginny's shoulders began to shake. "I'm sorry…Hermione, oh, maybe if you weren't so tired…"

"Why are you laughing!?"

"She's teething," Ginny gasped, and descended in to laughter. "She's going to be just fine."

"Oh my god," Hermione managed, and fell in a heap.

Ophelia had always been particularly _vocal_ about her complaints. During her teething months Hermione had gotten very little sleep.

She settled a little more in to the couch, wiggling her toes contentedly. Her tea had gone cold, and the clock was nearing half ten, but she didn't notice. Caught up in happy memories of Ophelia and anticipation of a long future together, Hermione drifted off to sleep. (She awoke the next morning with a crick in her neck and a headache like hell, but it was worth it anyways.)

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It was Tuesday. Hermione and Ophelia both liked Tuesdays. Tuesday had become the unofficial cousins' day, for on Tuesdays Mrs. Weasley would pick Ophelia up after lunch, and bring her back to the Burrow. She would also babysit the twins' few kids, Bill's son and daughter, Ron's son, and Harry's two children. Ophelia loved the long, languorous afternoons spent at the Burrow with a mob of children about her age. Hermione enjoyed picking Ophelia up, for if she came around seven—which she always did—Mrs. Weasley never failed to invite her to dinner.

This particular Tuesday, however, it looked like she wasn't going to make it by seven.

"Healer Granger—there's an emergency case on the second floor!" Ida rushed in to her office at six thirty, her normally pristine blonde hair in disarray, followed by a landslide of memo planes.

"Out, out, out!" Hermione cried, shooing the planes and the stressed assistant in to the outer office. Throwing on her lab coat and grabbing a hair tie, she proceeded to run full tilt to the elevator.

Daphne Greengrass had been in her year in Hogwarts, and a Slytherin, but she hadn't been particularly awful. Hermione remembered taking some vague class with her, like Advanced Arithmancy, or something, and they had been partnered a few times. She had been cool, but not cruel, and they had made a good team. Then, almost ten years later, Daphne was admitted the hospital with acute respiratory distress, unidentified hives, a heart about to give out, and something that looked suspiciously like acute gas gangrene on her left hand.

Hermione, as Head Healer of the Department of Magical Maladies and co-founder of the Department of Muggle Infectious Diseases, had immediately been rushed in, along with her old friend Susan Bones, who was Head Healer of the Diagnostic Wing.

Susan was already there when she arrived, bellowing orders at terrified looking nurses. "Hermione!" She cried. You've got to take a look at this. It's a reaction to something."

Hermione sprinted over to the stretcher-bed, knocking in to nurses, her clipboard flying left and right. "Symptoms?" She barked at the closest, and immediately got a quick sketch. She examined the hives and the throat, leaving the hand for last. "Susan, this is some sort of anaphylactic shock. Muggle's see them commonly, termed a 'severe allergic reaction.' Basically she's producing too much histamine in response to a foreign substance entering the body. The focus is on her throat right now, that's the respiratory distress. She needs an antihistamine treatment, right away." One of the nurses immediately rushed away, fetching a potion.

Susan frowned. "I've only seen an allergic reaction this bad once before, and I'd nearly forgotten. It was in a muggle hospital—they took us out of training to see it. But I've never seen a wizard have one."

"No time to ponder that now, she's nearing heart failure. I'm going to perform an epinephrine spell." Susan nodded, and Hermione concentrated on the spell, ignoring the sweat beading on her forehead. "Do you have anything on the hand?" She asked when she finished.

"It's spell induced, foreign, could be the cause of her allergy attack."

"Curse?"

"Probably not, no other bodily signs of a duel. I'd need a witness, though. She just stumbled in to the waiting room," Susan spoke quickly, but some of the tension was gone as the epinephrine began to take effect, slowing the allergic reaction. The nurse reappeared with the antihistamine, and Hermione and Susan breathed a sigh of relief.

"Phew, close call," Hermione said, wiping her forehead. "As long as we figure out the root case of her attack, she should be okay in the future."

"I'll officially transfer her to your department for care," Susan said. "Meanwhile, I'll need a sample of that hand, and I'll look in to that."

"Great," Hermione said. It was almost eight. It was going to be a long night.

At ten, Susan herself appeared in Hermione's office. Ida had departed earlier, so on one prevented her rushing in to the inner room, where Hermione was working on the case file and brainstorming treatment ideas.

"The case on the hand is definitely acute gas gangrene," Susan said breathlessly.

"How in the world did she get that?" Hermione cried, standing up.

Susan shrugged as they raced from the room together. "Doesn't matter right now, we just have to stop it from spreading."

"Which potion are you thinking?"

"Strong antibacterial, possibly in combination with an alcohol bath for the hand?"

"I agree, and we could even add a heat treatment," Hermione suggested, rather frantically.

She guiltily checked her watch. It was two thirty by the time the hand was sterile, and Hermione was exhausted. She hadn't even had time to contact the Weasleys and ask if Ophelia could spend the night.

"This is one of those times when I love magic," Hermione told Susan, upon hearing the news of the successful cleansing. "In the muggle world, the only way to cure gangrene is to amputate the infected area."

Susan gasped in horror, disgust, and pity. "I gave her the cell-regenerating potion."

"I'll keep her in care for another week, then," Hermione decided. "Partly for observation, partly to make sure she has a full recovery."

"Alright. Oh, Merlin, Hermione, it's nearly three in the morning! You should have gone ages ago, what was I doing, keeping you here! Oh, I'm so sorry!"

"Oh, don't worry. Ophelia's staying over at the Weasley's. Everything's fine," Hermione lied. "I'll see you tomorrow. I really had better go, though, or I won't be able to wake up!"

"I'm going to stay for the rest of tonight," Susan said. "I want to figure out what caused the gangrene. Sleep well!" She waved, and Hermione headed for the apparition point, intent on a few hours of sleep before picking up Ophelia around seven.

Mrs. Weasley was very kind about Ophelia staying the night—after all, it wasn't like this was the first time it had happened. Everyone knew Hermione was a workaholic. Ophelia, however, was not so pleased.

"You no tuck me in last night," she pouted, as Hermione carried her out the door.

"I'm so sorry sweetie. I had a big problem at work," Hermione tried desperately to appease her stubborn child. She quickly apparated them home, hoping Ophelia would forget in the rush of apparition.

No such luck. "I wanna sleep in my bed. Not Gamma's bed."

"I know baby, and tonight you will. Mommy just got stuck at work. Someone is very sick."

Ophelia looked perturbed. "Someone is very sick?"

"Yes, and Mommy had to stay and make them better," Hermione explained patiently.

"Momma made dem better!"

Having sufficiently distracted Ophelia, she set about making coffee and a quick breakfast for them both. Then, apologizing to Ophelia for having spent almost no time with her in the past few days, she apparated them both to Mrs. Mauve's.

"I'll pick you up early tonight, baby," she promised on the doorstep. "We'll spend some time together tonight."

"Don' wanna leave!" Ophelia had shrieked, clinging to her. "Momma!"

"I love you," Hermione whispered fiercely, clutching Ophelia to her in a brief hug. "I'll see you soon, I promise." Mrs. Mauve chose that moment to open the door, and Hermione patted Ophelia and tried to set her down.

"Love you too, Momma," Ophelia said, quieting, and Hermione gently disengaged her arms. She then nodded to Mrs. Mauve, and walked down the steps.

"Have fun at nursery, baby," she called. "I'll see you this afternoon."

&

It was next Tuesday, the Tuesday she signed the paperwork for Daphne's release, that the Inquisition descended. Hermione arrived at the Weasley's a little before seven, pleased with herself for being so prompt. She was surprised to find Harry and Ron sitting on the porch, drinking tea and chatting.

"Harry! Ron!" She cried, climbing up the steps and hugging them both. "To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?"

"Well, actually…" Ron looked vaguely guilty, and Hermione's ears immediately perked.

"Spit it out, Ron."

"Why didn't you tell us you were taking care of Daphne Greengrass?"

Hermione blinked, plopping in to the chair next to him. "Since when did I have to tell you about my patients?"

"Well, we thought, you know…" He trailed off inarticulately, and Hermione looked at Harry for help.

"What Ron is trying to say is that it's Daphne _Greengrass_, Hermione. She was one of Malfoy's friends in school." He quickly glanced at the door to the house, making sure it was shut. "Are you prepared to face him again, if he visits?"

"Did you really think that, after having her under my watch for a week now, that I hadn't thought about that?" Hermione said, her tone a bit acidic. "You know he's not even in England right now." Draco Malfoy had left to take over the position of American Ambassador shortly after the _incident._

Ron shrugged. "So? Hermione, he was really close with her. If one of us was in an American hospital and nearly died, you'd come and visit."

"Yes…but…this is _Malfoy_ we're talking about. He's not sensitive." Harry raised an eyebrow, and Hermione frowned. "Well he didn't come, so it doesn't really matter, now does it?"

"That's not the point," Harry said, and Hermione restrained herself from crying "then what _is_!?" He continued "the point is, would you have been able to deal with him if he _had_?"

Hermione swallowed. "I'm furious at him, still, if that's what you mean."

"Why don't you sue him or something?" Ron wanted to know. "I mean, he took advantage of you. Technically, isn't that like nonconsensual sex, or even rape?"

"It _is_," Hermione cried, eyes blazing. "And I researched it and I almost _did_ sue him, because the evidence of it is playing in your backyard right now! But…" the fire in her eyes quieted, and her face softened. "That little piece of evidence is exactly why I _can't_ make this a big deal."

"You want to protect Ophelia," Harry guessed, correctly.

"Exactly," she sighed. "I don't want her to be stalked by the press, known as the 'bastard child' of Draco Malfoy. It would be a mess."

Ron wasn't quite satisfied. "So…what if Malfoy finds out? I mean, on his own?"

"Another problem. I mean, I haven't seen him since that…" She paused, and everyone shifted uncomfortably. "Not that I would have told him anyways, but he definitely has no idea that Ophelia exists."

"What if he, like, wanted to kill her for some weird blood purity thing?" Ron asked, and Hermione looked horrified. Harry elbowed him and muttered something about being 'delicate.'

"Maybe he'll want the kid," Harry suggested unhelpfully. Hermione looked, if possible, even more horrified.

"No one is going to take Ophelia from me," she hissed. "_No one_." It wasn't her own head she was worried about—Hermione could handle Draco Malfoy. She just didn't want him to find out about Ophelia.

"Don't worry," Harry promised. "We're going to do everything we can to make sure that he doesn't find out, and that even if he does, he can't do anything about it."

"Yeah," Ron hastily agreed.

"Anyways," Hermione said, her fierceness replaced by fatigue. "If Malfoy had come to visit, I would have been perfectly prepared to see him. I know I'll have to face him again someday, and I'm just going to completely ignore him. I'm not going to accuse him of rape—although it kills me every day to think that he got away with it—and I'm _not_ going to tell him about Ophelia."

"Just treat him like we always have," Ron said. "Like a bouncing ferret."

Hermione giggled. "Ron, that has to have been at least twelve years ago."

"It was his finest moment," Ron sighed, looking dreamily in to the distance. Harry and Hermione could restrain themselves no longer, and they all burst out in to laughter.

"And remember when Hermione punched him in third year?"

"And when Ron belched slugs instead of him?"

"And Buckbeak attacked him, the arrogant ass?"

They sat on the porch together for the evening, reliving funny school memories and enjoying each other's company.


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Sorry this took forever. I've been on summer break for two weeks already but I'm a lazy slug. Swimming and lifeguarding have been sucking up all my time, in truth. But now I'm back, ready to rumble, and I know exactly where this story is going!! Also did I mention how MUCH I LOVE all my reviewers!? LOVE YOU THANK YOU! Also I love Draco. Enjoy. hehe.

&

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility**

&

"What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean!?" Draco Malfoy bellowed, feeling his face flush with rage. "Inappropriate conduct at meetings? What the hell is this bullshit?"

"Exactly what you are currently exhibiting, Mr. Malfoy," the Minister said calmly. "You have been relieved of your post as foreign ambassador, and will be reassigned domestically via Internal Affairs. Hopefully, this will teach you some…ah…_people skills._"

"I see," Draco hissed, regaining control of his temper. "Thank you for informing me, _sir_."

"I expect you to be present at the Ministry for reassignment next Monday. That gives you one week to put your American affairs in order."

Gritting his teeth, Draco stalked out of the private meeting room, allowing the door to slam behind him. "Insubordination? Contempt of superiors? I _am_ a superior! Who the hell was writing this?" He growled, flinging the door open to his outer office.

"Mr. Malfoy!" His secretary squeaked, recoiling at the dangerous look on his face. He threw the report on her desk, glaring fiercely.

"Find out who is responsible for this," he snapped, striding in to the inner room. "And cancel my meetings for today."

"But Mr. Malfoy, sir—"

"JUST DO IT!" He roared, and the door shut.

&

Draco sat motionlessly in the hard chair, trying not to show his impatience or discomfort. "Come on, come on, come _on,_" he muttered under his breath, resisting the urge to jiggle his leg like he'd had too much coffee. If there was one thing Draco Malfoy hated, it was inefficiency.

Finally, after what seemed an eternity, a secretary strode in to the room. "Draco Malfoy?" She called, looking around. Draco very nearly shot out of his seat, restraining himself to a more graceful unfolding at the last minute.

"Yes?"

"Follow me please," said the secretary, and strode off. He followed her to the office of the Head of Internal Affairs, Mirabelle Hawkins.

"Miss Hawkins," Draco practically purred, upon entry. He was still grumpy about losing his position of ambassador, but he knew when and how to turn on the charm.

"Mr. Malfoy," the rather dumpy woman inside said, beaming. "Please, do have a seat."

"Why thank you, ma'am."

"Oh, please, call me Mirabelle."

He stuck out his hand. "Draco." He could swear she practically giggled as she shook his.

"Now," she cleared her throat, shuffling papers. "You're here for an internal reassignment, yes?"

"Indeed," Draco affirmed pleasantly, squashing the inadvertent flash of rage, and brushing a stray lock of hair from his face.

"Hmm… now let me look here… Let's see, we have a few positions available. Let's see, with your credentials… Well, there's an opening for a position as an Unspeakable." Draco shook his head. "Um, a few more secretarial positions are available in Wizard Resources?" Another shake. "Negotiator-informant between the Wizengamot and the Minister," she paused, and Draco nodded contemplatively. "Or, finally, as head of a branch of the Tax Management and Distribution of Funding Department."

Draco hesitated. "Which branch?"

"You would head a team…um…ah, here we are. The position is described as 'head of a team which examines monthly St. Mungos Hospital for Magical Maladies and Injuries, determining each month the required allotment of Ministerial equity,' so in plain English, you would head a team that would be in charge of allocating Ministry funds to St. Mungos."

"Power," Draco thought. "This job gives me a tremendous amount of power—at least over St. Mungos." Aloud, he said, "But doesn't St. Mungos have significant outside funding of their own from private donors?"

"I believe so, yes," Miss Hawkins stammered, shuffling frantically. "However, hospitals can always use more money. It would be your job to determine just how much more."

Smiling, Draco placed his fingertips together. "What's the salary?" He asked, and Miss Hawkins beamed.

It was thus that Draco found himself, on Tuesday morning, dressed in a nice, well-pressed set of robes, striding towards the Financial Branch of the Ministry.

"Good morning, Mr. Malfoy," several obsequious unimportant people chirruped to him, scurrying out of his way as he made rapid time down the corridor.

He nodded. Department Heads received a noncommittal noise in addition to the curt nod, and the Minister of Magic (had he been there) may have received a clipped "morning." Some particularly lowly employees were not even graced with a glance.

"Malfoy!" Ernie MacMillan exclaimed, upon his entry to the Finance Department Wing. Draco restrained a groan—but it was a close thing.

"MacMillan," he managed weakly.

"Malfoy, well," Ernie slapped him on the back. "I sure didn't expect you when I told them I had an opening here, but, boy, glad to have you."

"You're the Head of the Financial Department?"

Ernie looked taken aback. "They didn't tell you?" Draco icily shook his head. "Well…well, yeah, yes I am. I requested some fresh meat—" Draco grimaced at the analogy "—and here you are! Ready to meet your team? I will personally show you the way to your new office!"

Inwardly fuming, Draco allowed himself to be led to a wide oval office, with an abundance of windows. It contained a desk, a potted plant, and a large table he assumed was for team meetings. In an outer room there was a secretarial desk, and across the hall there was a door labeled "meeting room," which Ernie informed him was also theirs to use. His secretary would be arriving with the team.

"And if I don't like them?" He snapped. "I'm very picky with my secretaries."

"Trust me," Ernie said. "She'll be fine."

Draco raised an eyebrow at the "trust" part, but was otherwise silent. "When will my team be here?"

"I sent the memos when I saw you coming. They should be here any minute." Ernie clapped him on the shoulder. "Best of luck!"

Draco was left alone in the middle of the empty room, staring out at the windows.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered to no one in particular. "_I_ should be the head of this bloody Department, not that fool. Who the hell comes up with these assignments? I have a couple of things to say—" He was interrupted by the door opening.

His team filed in, nine people total, plus his secretary. She bossily introduced herself Erwin, asked him how he liked his coffee, and set about putting her new desk in order.

Draco frowned. He couldn't decide whether he liked her or not. "Hello," he said, looking over the others.

Terry Boot, a Ravenclaw he vaguely remembered, and Nick Powell introduced themselves as financial analysts. Eileen Cooper was a former health inspector, Dawn Kantar had extensive Healer training, and working with Michael Evans and Justin Finch-Fletchley, who had backgrounds in private firms and non-profit organizations, they would be the four who would determine the necessary funding allocation. Jim Roberts was the recorder, paperwork type, and the tall, leggy blonde who introduced herself as Stella had no apparent purpose. Finally, Ross Bagman was an accountant from the Ministry Department of Finance, who, presumably, would be the one to tell them off if they tried to give St. Mungos too much.

Draco himself was boss, overseer, (God,) and most importantly, the direct go-between for St. Mungos and the Ministry team. He would be responsible for dealing with all the officials, attending their fund-raising parties, telling them how much they would be allocated each month, and dealing personally with requests and complaints. He was especially looking forward to the complaints part.

He had been especially good at that in America. He smirked. The script was always the same. "You have a _problem_ with the way I choose to run my embassy?" He would hiss, looking over the desk at the complainer.

"N-n-no, s-s-s-sir," the faceless, obnoxious American would always stammer in their hideous American accent.

"Fabulous," he would leer, and that would be that.

Although…that also might have something to do with why he was being reassigned. What had the Minister said again? Some ludicrous tomfoolery about "people skills?"

Draco frowned darkly, returning to the scene before him.

"Thank you for all being so prompt," he said upon the finish of their introductions, as they looked at him expectantly. He realized that they were probably expecting some sort of 'welcoming' speech. "I would like to begin reviewing the current financial records immediately. I have been led to believe that the Ministry's affairs regarding St. Mungos are currently in a very sorry state indeed. The metaphor he used to describe it was akin to 'throwing money down the drain.' As you know, no one, least of all myself, enjoys the idea of wasting money. The Minister is also worried that this will deteriorate relations between the Ministry and the hospital. So," he clapped his hands together. "Our first review of St. Mungos is next Friday. We will all go, as it is the first one."

"Mr. Malfoy," Eileen interrupted, and Draco had to restrain himself from shooting her an icy glare. He hated being interrupted. "I think the intention was to have only Dawn and me go, seeing as we both have backgrounds in health."

"Thank you for that insightful comment, Miss Cooper." Eileen colored. "However, as I was about to say, this is our very first review and I would like all my employees to have an idea of exactly what we are funneling our money towards. I'm sure all of you have been to St. Mungos at one time or another," there were nods throughout the group, "and have an idea of what to expect. However, we will be given a special tour, and shown back rooms and store rooms, so hopefully it will be worth our time. It will also give Eileen and Dawn and chance to prove themselves," he said pointedly, emphasizing "prove."

They stood there awkwardly for a minute, looking at loose ends. "That will be all," Draco snapped. "I want Terry, Nick, Ross, and Jim in my office with the Ministry records as soon as possible." He checked his watch. "Team meeting at five to review the day and plan for tomorrow."

"But work ends—" someone began.

"At five!" Draco barked, and they all took a step back and began to file out.

As they exited his office, he noticed Terry patting Eileen comfortingly on the back. She still looked offended by his visible snub. Draco smirked. Apparently, he had already made an enemy. He also filed Terry's comfort away for further note. It would not do to have inter-team romantic relations, he thought, albeit a little sadistically.

"Erwin," he said exasperatedly, poking his head out of the office window. "Get me something to eat, or drink, or _something._"

Erwin blinked. "No food or drink allowed in the financial wing offices, Mr. Malfoy."

"I don't give a _fucking shit_ Erwin, get me a damn coffee!"

"But Mr. Malfoy--"

"ERWIN!" He roared, infuriated. "COFFEE! NOW!"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: Just want to say....HUGE ENORMOUS THANKS TO MY REVIEWERS!! I love you all. It is SO COOL to get reviews! HOORAY!!

also, a NOTE: There was a ickle bickle timeline glitch with the ending of the last chapter, aka, I screwed up because it is supposed to be the ending of THIS chapter..ha ha funny right.. SO I recommend you briefly peruse last chapter's ending, which is now slightly different (read:chopped shorter.) Therefore, you already technically know the very final ending of this chapter. But that's okay!! Because there are 4,000 other words that you haven't yet viewed. Anyways, I promise there will be no more errors on my part. ENJOY!!

PS--I just wrote the kiss scene purely because I felt like it and it is GREAT! *squeaks* I love kissing. Ahh... the fateful reunion draws ever nearer...

&

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

&

"Sometimes I feel like a madwoman," Hermione confessed. "And…sometimes… at home with Ophelia, when it's just us and everything's quiet, I wonder how I ever lived without her, and how we manage to live, still so alone."

Helen took a sip of coffee. "Well dear, I empathize with you on the 'madwoman' sentiment." They both laughed.

"That's certain," Hermione said ruefully. "I regret not spending enough time with Ophelia, but in reality, we spend quite a lot of time together. We have all those evenings and mornings and weekends—and she's such a great little pal now…I told you about our duck pond, right?"

"Yes, and it sounded lovely."

"Yes, yes that was such a pleasant walk. And, I mean, I knew it was going to be like this when I decided to go through with it. Don't mistake these for second thoughts—they're certainly not—merely me griping."

"You know I never judge you."

Mother and daughter were enjoying their traditional Sunday morning coffee and croissants at the Granger's large dining room table, while Steve entertained Ophelia in the nearby living room.

Hermione smiled gratefully. "What would I do without you, after all these years of consistency?"

"I imagine you'd do just fine."

"Can you believe, that one day I'll be in a similar position as you? Giving my grown-up daughter advice?"

Her mother laughed; a rich, melodious sound. "And just think how lucky you'll consider yourself to be, every time you look at your beautiful daughter, grown up to be so mature and successful and happy." She looked at Hermione proudly.

"I know I think everyday how lucky I am to have such a wonderful mother."

"As well you should," Helen quipped. "So, to touch briefly again on serious matters." Hermione sat up a little straighter. "Is there anything we can do to help with your hectic schedule? You know Steve and I are considering retiring soon anyways."

"Oh, mum, no, honestly…"

"Hermione, don't beat around the bush with me. I'm your mother. There _is_ no bush with me."

"No, really mum, I'm not that stressed. It's just that recently there was a big case in the hospital—I mentioned the interesting gangrene one to you, right?—and, well, Harry and Ron brought up some concerns that got me thinking about everything, and Ophelia, and, well, I had to leave her at the Weasley's all night to deal with the case, and she was upset—"

"Alright," Helen interrupted in a business-like tone, cutting off her daughter's tirade. "First thing's first. You're going to have to accept that, in your line of work, accidental overnights will happen occasionally. That's why you have me and Mrs. Weasley helping out. You knew that being an emergency on-call single mother doctor would be difficult, but that is the choice you made, and there are no regrets."

Hermione nodded. "Yes, no, I mean, that part's not really the problem. Even Ophelia, you know, it's empty fretting. I spend plenty of time with her, and I love her so incredibly much. I suppose… well, really, that's not what's bothering me."

"Who was the patient you treated?" Helen asked shrewdly, and Hermione capitulated.

"A close friend of Draco Malfoy's."

"_Ah_. I see. That would have rather…complicated…things."

"He didn't come visit," Hermione quickly interjected. "I told you, he's currently the American Ambassador for Wizarding Relations on behalf of the Minister of Magic himself. But, the _possibility _of a visit lingered, and the implications and problems that could arise from the restoration of his presence…" She trailed off delicately.

"So what is the plan?"

"To ignore him, treat him like I always have, and above all, ensure that he does not find out about Ophelia."

Helen twisted her mouth thoughtfully. "And if I does find out about her?"

"Well, he's not the only man I've—"

"Hermione!" Helen cried, shocked. "I'm your mother!"

"—dated," she finished rather lamely.

"That's the plan?" Helen asked, rather skeptically. "To pretend it never happened and suppress the rage against him which is in your very nature, and if all else fails, to portray yourself as a whore?"

"What else would you have me do!?" Hermione snapped. "I can't sue him for harassment because I don't want to get Ophelia involved. I can't make a scene with him about the night because he'll simply say it was consensual. It would be my word against his, and I don't want this to get in the press! And above all, I want to protect Ophelia. If he found out she was his, who knows what he would do? He's Draco _fucking_ Malfoy—"

"_language, Hermione!_"

"—and he'll do whatever the hell his twisted mind comes up with and bribe a few Ministry officials and _voila, _my child is dead or his."

"My lord," Helen murmured, overwhelmed. "Whatever else he may or may not have done, he certainly gets you impassioned."

"Mum!" Hermione cried in disgust. "You make it sound like the love sort of passion!"

"Passion has many connotations, Hermione, one of which simply means using cuss words in front of your mother! I should wash your mouth out with soap. You're a grown woman, and words like that do _not_ befit the mouth of a lady. I cannot believe you kiss your child with that mouth."

"Sheesh, mum, I'm sorry," Hermione said. "You're so antiquated in some of your beliefs."

"That is because I, unlike you, apparently, was raised to believe in manners. But I digress." Hermione gave an unladylike snort. "I don't like your plan, but you don't present very many other options in your compelling argument against Draco Malfoy."

"See?"

"Not completely. When exactly will he come back to England?"

"I'm not sure. That's another thing that makes me tense—I know I'll be taken by surprise."

"That can be easily remedied," Helen said lightly. "If that weighs on you, I suggest you correct it. Also, explain to me again why exactly you can't sue him for harassment without getting Ophelia involved?"

Hermione sighed. "Well, Ophelia would be hard proof that we…um... Since, you know, five years later and all, any other evidence would have long since disappeared." Helen nodded. "So if I were to sue him for sexual harassment in court, approximately five years after the incident, with no evidence, and no eyewitnesses—"

"Why no eyewitnesses?"

"Because the only person that might have been able to attest would be the bartender, who I don't remember clearly, and was full of Malfoy's money. So with no evidence or eyewitnesses, it simply becomes my word against his. I would lose, hands down, and get a lot of publicity Ophelia I don't need, and a lot of public speculation as to the father of my child."

"Dear, I think the public assumes that you planned for it, and had a sperm donation." Hermione cringed at her mother's bluntness. Being a Healer hadn't cured her of her inability to handle awkward situations—like discussing sex with your mother.

"Um, mum, I don't think that's really very common in the Wizarding community."

"Well, it's a good thing that you're a muggle, then," Helen said flippantly. "Honestly, Hermione, you don't present as the type of fool girl who gets pregnant unintentionally."

"Because I _didn't_," Hermione butted in fiercely. "I wasn't in my right mind, which is why he was able to coerce me in the first place!"

"I know. That's why you don't appear like the type—you aren't." Hermione calmed a little. "We discussed this when you were pregnant, remember?"

"Yes, but—"

"What's the drawback? Simply tell people that you were ready to have a child and you didn't want or need a husband. You don't even have to specify how, precisely, you went about getting that child."

Hermione blushed. "But couldn't Malfoy, y'know…"

"It will again be your word against his, and in this instance, _you _would win, and he will know this. You're a prim and proper young witch who rarely does anything spontaneous, as far as most people know the only person you've ever dated was Ron Weasley, and to top it all off, you've hated Draco Malfoy for as long as anyone can remember. Also, as you said yourself, there are no eyewitnesses."

"So Malfoy can't prove that Ophelia is his without demanding a DNA sample. He can't take her away from me without dragging it into court and, after a long and arduous process, possibly obtaining a court order requiring me to submit a DNA sample. Or very possibly not—I'd have to look up the legal jargon concerning this. In the meantime, however, can't all this strife be avoided by simply ensuring that, if or when Malfoy returns, he has no reason to find out about Ophelia?"

"That sounds logical to me," Helen agreed. "And if there's trouble, you could always leave the country."

"What? Leave!"

"If you felt that was the only way to keep Ophelia safe, you know we would all support you," Helen said.

Hermione's shoulders sagged, and she bowed her head. "I would really hope… I hadn't thought… I don't really…"

"Hopefully it won't come to that. You know I would miss you terribly."

"But my job! And my friends, and my life!" Hermione cried, recovering from her initial shock. "I've spent years establishing myself, and I'm finally happy! I'm not a coward. Draco Malfoy doesn't scare me! I won't let him drive me away. I'll drive _him_ away before I'll let that happen!"

Helen hid a smile behind her coffee cup. "I would certainly hope you would." There was a brief lull in the conversation, as the both digested the new option that Helen had hoped would be intentionally provocative.

"I suppose it is always good to have an emergency plan, in the event of in irreversible crisis," Hermione finally said.

"If you feel that way, I would suggest you begin to think about making some emergency preparations."

"True…" Hermione mused, and Helen could practically see the wheels in her head turning. "Money's not really an issue…"

"Where do you think you would go?"

"I'm not going to talk about it," Hermione said, and Helen could see she had already decided. She guessed it was probably a villa in Italy, or the South of France. She knew Hermione had always loved it there. "If I ever had to leave, I obviously wouldn't want anyone to know where I had gone."

"Not even me, or Harry and Ron?"

"The best way to ensure no one finds out is to tell no one at all," Hermione said, smiling. "And I would worry that if you knew where I was, you would try and come visit me."

Helen smiled. "You caught me! Anyways, this is a very remote possibility, and the thought of it makes me anxious. Now that this is all settled, let's go see how Ophelia and Steve are doing." She stood up, holding out her hand for Hermione's empty mug.

"Thanks mum," Hermione whispered, pulling her in to a tight hug. "I really don't know what I would do without you."

"I imagine you'd do just fine," Helen repeated for the second time that day, and went to wash the dishes.

&

"Fee-fee," Ron cooed, teasing one of Ophelia's curls.

"Ron, how many times have I told you not to call her that? Her name is Ophelia. Don't corrupt Shakespeare's beauty," Hermione called from the kitchen, only half joking.

"But Herm, everyone needs a nickname," Harry protested, over Hermione's "my name is Herm_ione_." "Fee suits her."

Hermione emerged from her kitchen, holding a plate of cookies. "Does it even matter what I think?"

"When you're carrying a plate of cookies—he, er, heck yes!" Ron cried, jumping off the floor, where he had been building blocks with Ophelia. "What type are those?"

"Is that what that smell was? I thought something had died," Harry joked as he stood up, earning a glare from Hermione. "C'mon Fee, cookies and milk!" He reached out a hand, helping her up too.

"Blocks," Ophelia said proudly, looking at Hermione. "Momma! I made a tower."

"It's great," Hermione smiled. "You deserve lots of chocolate chip cookies for your hard work."

"And milk?"

"Of course! Cookies and milk always go together," Ron couldn't help saying. "Give me some of those." He grabbed five.

Hermione laughed. "Ron!" She put the plate on a small coffee table, bending down to sweep Ophelia in to her arms.

"Do you like your uncles, baby?"

"Fee likes nuncles," Ophelia said, unable to wrap her tongue around her own name.

Hermione sighed. "Fee it is, I suppose. I know when to concede defeat." Harry and Ron laughed in agreement.

"Con—seed dee—feet?"

"To give up," Hermione explained patiently to a baffled Ophelia. "Defeat is when someone else beats you."

"Herm, I'd better get going," Ron mumbled around a mouthful of cookies. "Practice soon." Out of Hogwarts, Ron had finally achieved his lifelong dream, joining the Chudley Canons. Now twenty seven, he only had a few more years of professional Quidditch left, but already he had been offered several prestigious coaching positions.

"I bet I only got them 'cause I'm Harry Potter's best friend," he had confided to Hermione in private, but she disagreed. Ron had grown in to quite a talented player, and he had always had a great grasp of the tactical maneuvers. At any rate, he practiced incessantly.

"Will you be able to fly with all those cookies in you?"

"Oh, yeah, easy, I fly on a full stomach loads." Hermione looked slightly disapproving, but refrained from commenting. "Love ya Fee, see ya tomorrow Herm," he said, smacking a kiss on Ophelia's forehead and hugging Hermione around the shoulders, before disapparating.

"What about you, Harry?" Hermione asked, glancing at her watch. "You've been here awhile, do you need to be getting home?"

Harry shrugged. "I think I'm good for a few more minutes, or so." He smiled. "Ginny wants me to get you and Fee over for dinner sometime soon."

"Nonsense! I need to have you all over for dinner!"

"No, Hermione, it's our turn. You've had us over the last few times."

"Oh, you know I hate imposing…I already feel bad going over to Molly's so much…"

"Hermione, don't be ridiculous. It's a pleasure to have you around! What with all of our busy schedules, sometimes I feel like we don't see each other enough."

"I like nuncle Harry," Ophelia said helpfully, following the conversation avidly.

"Alright," Hermione said, holding up her hands and smiling. "When do you want us over?"

"How does Wednesday night sound? You pick Ophelia up on Wednesdays, right?"

"Yes. That sounds lovely. Is six thirty alright?"

"Perfect!" Harry exclaimed, delighted.

"How long?" Ophelia asked.

"Three days," Harry said, taking over Hermione's role as explainer. "Today is Sunday. After today is Monday, Tuesday, and then Wednesday!"

"Whens-ay!" Ophelia giggled, clapping her hands. "Sunnay, Munnay, Toosay, Whensay!"

"Well, I had probably better head back, now. No, don't even ask, I can't stay for dinner. Ginny would slaughter me if I missed _another_ family dinner." Harry was an Auror, and his schedule was similar to Hermione's in that it was often unpredictable.

"Sounds good," Hermione laughed, patting his shoulder. "I'll see you soon."

"Bye," Harry said, ruffling Fee's hair.

Ophelia waved her hand awkwardly. "Bye-bye."

"So Ophelia, it's just you and me now," Hermione said, gently setting the girl down. "What do you want to do?" Sunday evenings were reserved especially for them, a time for mother and daughter to do whatever suited their fancy.

"Dinner. Fee likes dinner and ice creams."

Hermione laughed. "If you promise to eat all your vegetables, we can go out for ice cream after dinner."

"Ice creams! I promise."

"Well, now what should I make for dinner? How about chicken pot pie?"

Ophelia nodded emphatically, saying only "yum."

"Okay baby. You go wash up while I start making dinner."

Hermione drew a bath for Ophelia and bustled around the kitchen while Ophelia splashed in the tub. They ate dinner fairly quickly, Hermione simply because she wasn't that interested in the pie, and Ophelia because she wanted ice cream. After supper, Hermione tidied them both and apparated to the Leaky Cauldron. They walked to Diagon Alley, where Florean Fortescues' Ice Cream Parlor would be open for another few weeks.

"You'll miss this place when it shuts for the winter," Hermione told Ophelia, holding her hand tightly as they moved through the crowds of evening shoppers. "You like ice cream."

"I love ice creams," Ophelia corrected her. "Books too!" She cried, distracted by the large children's book display in Flourish and Blotts. "I want to read! Learn read when?"

Hermione smiled. "Like mother, like daughter." She shook her head. "Today, ice cream. Tomorrow, a new book. You can only have so many treats in one day!" Inside, however, she was wondering.

She loved books, and clearly Ophelia was already interested at the tender age of four. She herself had no great love for sweets. Was it from Malfoy, then, that Ophelia had inherited her rampant sweet tooth? She remembered all the various care packages his mother would send him in school. How many other traits of Malfoy's had Ophelia inherited?

In a fit of protectiveness, Hermione gathered Ophelia in to her arms. "I love you," she whispered fiercely, hugging the child tightly. Ophelia, seeming to sense the serious nature of the moment, clung back.

"Love momma," she agreed. A moment of hugging was enough for her, however. She tugged on one of Hermione's curls. "Momma ice creams melting," she reminded her. "Also wanna books."

Hermione laughed, setting down the child and ruffling her blonde curls. "Baby, if I buy you a book, you're going to have to learn to read," she warned, aware that she was spoiling her atrociously.

"Wanna learn!" Ophelia promised, and Hermione sighed.

"I made a promise to myself to never resist buying you academic things."

So they bought the books. Hermione ended up finding a few for herself, and by the time they returned home it was getting late.

"I'll begin to teach you tomorrow," she promised, kissing Ophelia on the forehead. "You'll learn super fast, I'm sure."

"Supah fast," Ophelia murmured sleepily. "Learn supah fast."

"Love you!"

"Love momma awso."

Hermione smiled softly, pulling the covers up higher. She took a moment to admire her angelic baby, sleeping peacefully in the small sleigh bed Harry and Ron had built for her. Hermione admired her golden curls—so similar to her own at that age, yet lacking her frizz. She was fascinated by the delicate arch of her cheekbone, and the fine sculpting of her chin and forehead. The pale, almost-transparent skin came from Malfoy, she was sure, and the arching eyebrows, set upon the high forehead, were his too. But the fragile nose had been lifted off her own face, and the rosy lips were hers.

It was the eyes that always baffled her—their cold, clear, crisp oceanic blue. Malfoy had grey eyes, she remembered, so light they could almost be called silver. She herself was in possession of a fine pair of hazel eyes, so where Ophelia's had come from was a mystery indeed. She traced the outline of her face gently, smiling at her own silliness. Dividing Ophelia's features between herself and Malfoy, and feeling a sense of triumph that she had "won" the battle. She worried, though. Ophelia's cheeks were chubby yet, but as she grew Hermione knew her face would begin to take on the gaunt, angular look that was so characteristic of the Malfoys. None of her own soft, rounded edges were present underneath.

The name Ophelia suited her, she idly reflected, and not just because it was from a Shakespearean tragedy. To Hermione, it conveyed elements of an aristocratic dignity: something she could already see hidden in her young baby face. She brushed a golden curl off Ophelia's forehead, and smoothed the pout from her mouth.

"I'll love you forever," she said again, but added another touch. "Even when you're all grown up, and a regular heartbreaker to boot, you'll still be mine. Forever and ever and ever."

Ophelia turned in her sleep, mumbling slightly. Hermione smiled, and softly shut the door as she left. Work would start early tomorrow, and they both needed their sleep.

&

"Look," he snapped for the fifth time. "I've told you—"

"Mr. Malfoy, the manager is simply not available."

Draco resisted the urge to scream in frustration and tear his hair out. "We need some type of tour."

"There are plenty of nurses—"

"We are an elite team working for the Department of Finance of the Ministry of Magic, and as of Monday _we_ are in charge of allocating Ministry funds to St. Mungos!" Draco roared, standing from his chair and slamming his hands down on either side of the desk. "If it's not the bloody manager of the hospital giving us the tour, it had better be the next highest person on the damn ladder!"

The frightened employee leaned back, stammering and muttering. "I'll see what I can do," he finally managed to say, eyeing Draco warily.

"Send me a memo," Draco growled, and exited the office. St. Mungos was so wretched sometimes, he thought grumpily, angry at the cancellation of their tour. He had scheduled it last Monday, and two days from the grand beginning he had been informed that the manager now had an 'unavoidable conflict.'

"Erwin," he spat, upon apparating to the Ministry. "Send Mungos a scathing letter and demand to keep the tour time, with another similarly highly positioned employee. Make sure you specify that a common nurse or doctor _simply_ will not suffice."

"Yes Mr. Malfoy," Erwin nodded, her mousy bun bobbing. Draco frowned. He still couldn't decide whether or not he liked Erwin, even after more than a week of working with her. She was different than all of his other secretaries. Less…attractive…

"Great," he said in a clipped tone, striding in to his office. A mound of paperwork to review awaited him, in a neat pile on his desk. "I guess this means they've finally finished reviewing the current finance records," Draco groaned, settling in to his chair. "Erwin!" He shouted. "I'm going to need some more coffee!"

He watched through the glass as Erwin blinked owlishly, and scuttled off to find a cup.

_October 21… St. Mungos' Department of Research was allocated 60,000 galleons by order of…_

Draco yawned.

_December 19… St Mungos' Terminal Ward was allocated 20,000 galleons…_

He considered picking his nose. Do Malfoys pick their noses?

_February 5… St Mungos' Department of Magical Maladies, in conjunction with the Department of Muggle Infectious Diseases was allocated 2,000,000 galleons by order of…_

No, probably not—Draco paused. 2,000,000 galleons? The Department of Research hadn't been given even half that amount! He frowned, picking up the file. Any abnormalities in accounting could mean money going down the drain.

"Draco?"

He looked up in surprise. "Yes?" Stella was peering through his door.

"Do you have a moment?" She asked, sauntering into his private office.

"Actually," he began, but she cut him off, sitting on his desk.

"What are you doing tonight?"

He gestured towards the stack of paperwork. "Work."

"Come on, Draco," Stella purred, leaning down so that he had a nice view of her chest. "You work too much."

"It _is_ my job."

"Take a night off! Have some funn," she murmured, drawing out "fun."

"Listen, Stella," Draco said, standing from behind his desk and motioning for her to get off. "I have paperwork to do, and so do you." He ushered her to the door. "Thanks for the offer."

Stella pouted, attempting to look seductive but really only looking very put-out. "Bye then."

Draco couldn't help admiring the way her skirt hugged her, erm, _ass_ets, as she walked away. But he knew he could never actually date her. He simply couldn't put up with vapid women. They drove him up the wall.

"ERWIN!" He shouted, glaring at the glass. "COFFEE!"


	5. Chapter 5

A/N: Short but sweet, guys! I'll keep this brief because I've kept you guys waiting on this. So, LOVE to my reviewers and readers. Love you all so super much! Sorry that it has been slow these past few weeks...summer has hit me with force. I just started my internship in the Operating Room/Wing today...which was interesting although boring. Since it was my first day they just had me doing inventorying and stuff, although I did get to see a uterus specimen that had been removed because of benign tumor growth. Sooooo anyways ENJOY! Next chapter up super super soon, swear!! LOVE YOU GUYS!

&

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility**

&

As usual, Hermione's workweek was full of long hours and taxing situations, but, also as usual, she worked hard and loved it.

It was Thursday evening when everything fell down around her ears.

"Healer Granger, you have a memo from Jason Burke!" Ida called, around six-fifteen. Hermione was already packing up in a panicky manner, determined to get to her mother's in time for a seven o'clock dinner.

"Not right now, Ida," she said with clenched teeth, grabbing a sheaf of forms and stuffing them mercilessly into her bag.

"But Healer Granger, it's labeled urgent—"

Hermione stomped out of her office. "Give it here," she growled, snatching it from her secretary's grip and ripping it open impatiently. Her eyes scanned it briefly, and then she thrust it back at Ida. "Impossible," she said. "I know I owe him a favor but what he is asking is ludicrous. I don't have three hours to waste on corporate employees tomorrow. Write him back. Tell him it's absolutely impossible."

"Unfortunately, Hermione, I'm afraid you don't have the luxury of refusing," a new voice said, and Hermione slowly and tremulously raised her eyes.

Liam Moore, Head of St. Mungos and Hermione's single superior, stood in front of her. He was a huge man, at least six feet five, and he had been a beater in his youth. Hermione tended to think of him as a "hulking mass of humanity," referring to him merely as "the giant" when he wasn't around.

She gulped, and straightened her back. "I believe that it's _your_ job to entertain corporate people," she said tartly.

"It would be, if I were available."

"And what makes you think that _I_ am?"

"The fact that whatever you're doing is less important than what I am."

Hermione glared, enraged. "_For your information_—" she began heatedly, then stopped, gathering her composure. "Unfortunately, _Liam_, I am unavailable. Have one of the nurses give the tour."

"Hermione," Liam said in a warning tone. "Burke was adamant. The party is responsible for allocating our Ministry funding, and they want the highest level official possible to show them around. That would be you."

She fumed, but there was nothing to be done. His logic was irrefutable, and funding _was_ terribly important. "I cannot believe you're saddling me with this," she hissed. "If one of my patients die, it's on _your _conscience." She whirled around, stalking towards her office.

Liam smiled indulgently. "I have faith in you, Hermione. I know three hours won't make the difference." Her only response was another glare and a door slam. "You know," he said conversationally to Ida. "If she weren't such a fantastic Healer, I would have fired her long ago for insubordination."

"I heard that," Hermione shouted from inside her office. "Ida! I need you to bump up Springfield's surgery to tonight, since I will be otherwise _occupied_ tomorrow during the scheduled time!"

Liam headed off, and Hermione bustled around her office in a fit of rage, dragging papers haphazardly from her bag and tossing things every-which-way.

"Unbelievable," she said to no one in particular, scribbling her mother a note that no, she certainly would not be making dinner tonight. "_Un_—_be_—_lievable_."

&

"Come on people let's move it, let's go, you're all three minutes late already, let's _go!_"Draco snapped irritably, frowning at everyone. His team had assembled in a rather sloppy half circle. "You all look noticeably shabby," he commented.

"It's bloody early," the sleepy brown haired man directly across from him moaned.

Draco ignored him. "Everyone here? Right, we're apparating to St. Mungos main lobby, where we are already," he checked his watch, "four minutes late for our personal tour. Now, if you would all kindly oblige?" Everyone turned to go. "And Boot—" Terry looked up, hair still in his eyes, "—cry me a frickin' river."

&

Hermione frowned, tapping her foot. If there was one vice she detested above all others, it was lateness. A staunch (if hypocritical) supporter of punctuality, she had expected this oh-so-important party to be five minutes _early_ at the very least. They were already almost four minutes late.

"I still cannot believe _I_ was the one elected to do this," she told the air. A resounding series of _pops_ promptly filled the air, interrupting her scintillating session of complaints. Plastering a smile on her face, she stepped forward to shake hands with the team leader.

And promptly stopped, jaw dropping and hand falling limply to her side. He hadn't changed a bit. Draco Malfoy stood dead in front of her, exactly as he had five years ago: tall and lean, arrogant and cool, confident and practically princely.

For the second time in her life, Hermione Granger saw red. In fact, she saw crimson.

Unsurprisingly, she did the same thing she had the first time. She backhanded him across the face with every ounce of force she could muster.

"I never want to see your slimy face again," she said, and left the lobby.

&

"YOU ARE A PROFFESSIONAL," Liam was shouting at her. "YOUR JOB IS TO GET FUNDING FOR THIS HOSPITAL, NOT TO LOSE ALL POSSIBLE CHANCE OF IT!"

Hermione resisted the urge to cower. "I _will _not—"

"FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE, GRANGER, YOU WILL _DO AS YOU'RE TOLD_." Liam regained his composure, the purple slowly fading from his cheeks. "Hermione, we need the funding. You _will_ do what is necessary, because it is in the best interests of yourself and this hospital."

She had faced this dilemma, in different guises, several times throughout her life. The conflict of personal versus academic, or workplace, interests had occurred several times at Hogwarts. Most of the time, academics won out. Occasionally, she would sacrifice her morals and values in order to aid Ron and Harry, her dearest friends.

Draco Malfoy was not her dearest friend. Not even remotely. In fact, he was quite the opposite. So, _logically_, she should not sacrifice her job because of him, not for any reason at all. But part of her—and not a small part, either, was screaming in fury and fear, and demanding to never lay eyes on Draco Malfoy again.

_You knew what you were getting in to,_ Hermione told herself. _You knew he wouldn't stay in America forever and you planned for this eventuality. _

It was a pitched battle to the death, but her sensible, logical, disciplined side won out.

"Fine," she huffed at Liam ungracefully. "We have a little history. I," she choked a little on the words, suppressing the last thread of anger, "apologize for my irresponsible action."

Liam nodded. "Well, what are you still doing here?"

Frowning but resigned, Hermione exited, mentally preparing herself for three hours of her own personal hell. Needless to say, she was not disappointed.


	6. Chapter 6

A/N: Wow. I have gotten such a great, positive response to this story so far! I really enjoy writing it, and I'm glad you guys like it. THANK YOU SO MUCH FOR REVIEWING! Seriously, it makes my day! Anyways, here you are. INTERACTION! WOOT WOOT!

&

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

&

She had a villa in Italy. She _could_ leave—right now—if she wanted to, and never come back to this job, never see him again, never deal with any of this again. But she was Hermione Granger, and she was and always had been, at least until she had met Draco Malfoy, unbreakable and infallible. He was Draco Malfoy, a mistake, and Hermione had discipline, and did not give in to irrational urges to run away and curl up in a small ball.

"Hello," she said tightly, refusing to look at Malfoy or any members of his team, and settling instead for a bit of plaster peeling on the far wall. "If you would follow me, your tour of the St. Mungos facilities will now commence." The words spewed mechanically from her mouth, inside she was at once frozen and firey, fearful and vengeful.

She began to walk down the hallway, heels clacking on the marble, hyper-aware of her surroundings as the members of Malfoy's team trailed behind her. She felt, rather than saw, as he fell in to step beside her.

"Granger," he drawled, and she heard the smirk in his voice. She refused to acknowledge him, yet every nerve tingled with adrenaline at the unpleasantness of having him near. "What a pleasant surprise."

Italy. Villa in Italy. She repeated the words as a mantra. If she wanted, she had an escape.

She gestured to a wing on her left, and spoke in an impersonal voice designed to carry. "Here we have my area of specialty—the melding of muggle instruments and magical cures in order to create the most effective solutions. In this wing, we have several advanced muggle machines used mainly for diagnostic medicine—" Stella yawned loudly and obviously, and Hermione shot her a withering look "—such as an MRI, CT and CAT scanners." They dispersed throughout the wing, peering at the large plastic machines.

"What is this stuff?" Justin Finch-Fletchley muttered, kicking the large white MRI machine.

"DON'T—" Hermione screeched, lunging forward, and then abruptly reeled herself in. "Don't manhandle the machinery, please. It's very delicate and expensive, one of the many things for which we would like more funding."

Draco smirked.

"Can this break, too?" Nick Powell asked, looking as if he were about to throw his weight against the CT scanner.

"Yes!" Hermione snapped, and, realizing what a bad idea it had been to actually bring them in to the wing, steered them back to the main hall. "Erm, this is the 'great hall' of St. Mungos, off of which most of our main medical research wings stem. On the next floor are the ICU, OR, and also the IP beds."

Her words were met with a sea of blank looks. "Granger," Draco said patronizingly. "They don't understand your medical terminology, seeing as they're bankers."

"Oh, right! On the second floor is the Intensive Care Unit, Operating Rooms, and In-patient beds. The third floor is overflow beds and research rooms." She forgot to glare at him in her haste to explain.

"So, as Head of a Department, do you have an office on the first floor?" Dawn asked.

Hermioned beamed at her. "Yes. Excellent observation!" She continued walking briskly down the main hall, pointing out department wings that were individual or required particular funding.

"You should have been a teacher, Granger," Malfoy drawled, walking beside her once more.

Hermione was again startled in to replying. "What? Why?"

"Well, for one thing, you're so good with kids." This was said with a significant look cast in the direction of his team. Hermione choked a little, in what looked suspiciously like a snort of laughter. "It would also be the perfect outlet for your insufferable condescension," Malfoy finished maliciously.

"It's really such a surprise you were fired from your position as Ambassador," Hermione rejoined coolly, smiling when he blanched. "I mean, you're _so_ good with people."

"My _people skills_ are fine, Granger," he growled.

"Of course they are," Hermione said blandly. "Now, if everyone would please look to the left, here, we're passing the official wing of Diagnostic Medicine. That is, where they figure out what exactly is wrong with you."

Terry Boot popped a bubble of gum. "What Department do you run?" He asked, smiling at her warmly.

Hermione frowned at him and ignored his question. "The Department of Diagnostic medicine often requires many tests and special diagnostic procedures, thus, they burn through much of their budget. It is one of the departments for which we are advocating and attempting to procure more funding."

Draco smirked again, looking like a cat that had caught a mouse between his claws.

"What!?" Hermione yelped.

He looked at her blankly, eyes wide and innocent. "Beg pardon?"

Hermione made a disgusted sound in the back of her throat and swept along with the tour.

"Losing it, Granger?" A voice hissed in her ear, making the skin on the back of her neck prickle. It could only be Malfoy.

"Get away from me," she hissed, recoiling and making as if to push him away.

"How'd you know it was me?"

She glared. "Only you could make me feel so unclean."

He drew back as if slapped, eyes snapping. "For your information, Granger, _I'm_ the one who should be saying that to _you_," he spat.

"Why?" It was Hermione's turn to play innocent. "Unlike you, I bathe every day and clean my teeth regularly." Malfoy colored, his pale cheeks taking on a pink hue. He made as if to grab the collar of her shirt, like he might another man, and abruptly stopped as she skipped away. "Don't _touch_ me!" Hermione shrieked, looking shaken.

He smiled, a poisonous, ugly grin. "Oh Granger," he simpered. "You have no idea who you're dealing with."

"On the contrary," she snapped, regaining her confidence when it became clear he wasn't going to use physical force. "I know I'm dealing with a big _baby_ who can't control his temper!" She thought for a moment that she had misjudged him—for he clearly did have a terrible temper—and that the humiliation in front of his colleagues and inferiors was too great, and he would throw caution to the winds.

For a tense moment, they stood, facing each other, Hermione quivering with fear and a vengeful anticipation, almost wishing that he would try to hit her, or something, so that she could hex him halfway to Cambodia. Draco glared back at her, his face blotchy and his hands clenched in to fists. It was Hermione who broke it, sweeping around to continue walking down the hall, Draco's shocked staff trailing mildly behind her like lost sheep.

For a few minutes, she foolishly allowed herself to hope that she had won. Perhaps he would cease bothering her, now, and she could finish the tour in peace. After this, she really would never have to speak to him face-to-face again. She could communicate any funding proposals necessary via owl post.

"I own you."

"Excuse _me_?" Hermione demanded harshly, whipping around to face him again. He was walking beside her, and had just delivered a shockingly inappropriate line in the calmest of manners.

"You need my approval for funding. So, I own you." He smiled at her cockily. "So you really should be nicer to me."

Hermione shook with anger. "But your _personal_ opinion doesn't matter because this is all business, so of course in your funding allocations you will be strictly _professional_."

Malfoy laughed harshly. "And if you truly believe that, Granger, then there's no help for you."

"So then what do you want?"

"Your deference," he said seriously, and Hermione looked at him as if her were off his rocker. "If that's unavailable, then a dinner date will suffice," he said, laughing.

"You're disgusting. Absolutely not," Hermione snapped automatically. Inside, she was crying _what the hell!? Draco Malfoy truly has lost it. _

"You'll do it though," Malfoy said. "You'll do it because I want it, and you want to keep all the privileges of your job that having money entails."

Hermione smiled tightly at him. "I have my limits."

"And this might barely make the cut, but it is still within them," he rejoined, still smiling knowingly.

Hermione couldn't restrain herself any longer. "WHY!?" She cried, a little too loudly. "You hate me, and you _know_ the feeling is mutual. _Why are you doing this?_"

Draco leaned forward, so close that Hermione could feel his lips caressing the shell of her ear, and she shivered involuntarily. "Because," he whispered, his breath hot on her cheeks. "I enjoy the sensation of controlling people."

"You're vile," Hermione spat, beginning to stalk away. "The tour is over."

"I'll see you on Sunday, then," he called after her.

"Your breath smells foul!" Hermione shouted childishly over her shoulder. _Italy. Italy. I can go to Italy if I want. _

Malfoy looked vaguely perturbed.

&

"Mum?" Hermione's voice on the phone sounded tinny and exhausted.

"Hermione, is that you?" Helen Granger's voice was soft, warm, and as comforting as it always had been. "What's wrong?"

"I…" sigh. "I need to ask you a favor."

"Hermione, what's wrong?"

Hermione sighed heavily again. "Look, can Ophelia stay over at your place tonight?"

"Of course, but why?"

"I just need some time... I'll pick her up tomorrow."

Helen frowned, listening worriedly to the static. "Tomorrow is Saturday, so come by whenever."

"Yeah. Love you."

_Click. _Hermione leaned against the wall as she plunked the phone in the receiver, the small LED light turning green to let her know it was charging. She turned around, facing the dark apartment.

"I need a drink or something," she said bemusedly, to no one in particular. Thankfully, at this point a knock sounded at her door.

"Hermione?" Harry and Ron's voices were audible through her door. "Hermione open up, it's us!"

A bedraggled looking Hermione slowly pulled open the door. Her hair was lank and she had large bags under her eyes.

"You look awful," Ron blurted out, and even Harry had trouble concealing his shock. "You were right to call us. What happened to you today at work?"

It was nearly midnight on Friday night, approximately twelve hours after Hermione's last contact with Malfoy, and yet she was still shaking off the lingering feelings of discomfort.

"Oh, Ron, Harry," she sighed, and promptly collapsed. They carried her to the sofa, popping out a few bottles of butterbeer that they had obviously stopped to pick up along the way.

Ron grinned. "Thought these might come in handy."

"You better start to watch it," Harry joked, slapping him across the stomach. "Going to get the old british beer belly at the rate you're putting these things away."

"Ron, you're not becoming an alcoholic?" Hermione demanded, sitting up straight and recovering a semblance of normalcy.

"Good lord, woman, the ideas you come up with! No, Hermione, I just enjoy a butterbeer every now and then, especially with friends. Is that so wrong?" He glared at Harry.

"Just as long as it's only butterbeer," Hermione said, shooting him a heated glance from under lowered lashes. She and Harry exchanged a long glance.

"Anyways, this isn't even supposed to be about me," Ron laughed.

Harry grabbed a blanket from the armchair and threw it over Hermione, and he and Ron took seats on the floor. "Now, tell us what in the name of Merlin is going on, Hermione," he said pointedly.

"Malfoy's back," she whispered, closing her eyes against the rush of blood that accompanied his name. She could feel the migraine creeping up. "And today I gave his department a tour. He's in charge of ministry funding for St. Mungos."

She paused. Harry and Ron held their breath, sensing that the worst was yet to come.

"As he kindly put it, he owns me. And he has decided to abuse that power… by asking me out on a date, for Sunday night." She chugged down her butterbeer, trying to find solace in the fuzzy warmth that accompanied it, steeling herself for their explosion.

"WHAT?" Ron bellowed and leapt to his feet, while Harry radiated a quiet ferocity.

"He can't do this."

"DAMN RIGHT, HE CAN'T BLOODY DO THIS!"

"Ron," Hermione tried, now pinching the bridge of her nose in a last attempt to stave off the migraine. "Please, you'll wake up the entire—"

"WELL THEY CAN DEAL WITH BEING AWOKEN! MALFOY CANNOT DO THIS TO MY FUC—"

"Ron," Harry said, placing a hand on each of his shoulders and forcing him down into sitting position.

Hermione sighed. "I need your help, not your anger."

"She's right, and you know it." Harry added. "Rage won't help right now. Let's just talk this over once again."

"No, I just needed to get it off my chest," Hermione said. "Thanks for coming over on such short notice. I just…needed friends, you know?"

"Hermione," Ron looked distraught. "You don't have to apologize. We were happy to come. We're always happy to come! Now," he took a deep breath. "Tell us the whole story, and don't try to censor it for us."

"Just like Hogwarts," Harry grinned.

"Unfortunately, yes," Hermione quipped. "Malfoy is still the bane of my existence."

"Who'd a thunk?" Ron said, prompting a sharp "_thought_, Ron," from Hermione, that had them all laughing.

"Was he a total prick?" Harry wanted to know.

"Absolutely. God, he was completely unchanged. But I got in a few barbs about his extraordinary people skills being the reason he lost his job as ambassador.

Ron bellowed with laughter. "Good Lord, Hermione, he must have hated that! How was it, seeing him again?"

Hermione blushed. "Actually…I, erm…"

"What?"

"I slapped him," she confessed. "And it felt delicious."

Harry and Ron roared, slapping her on the back. "Merlin, I wish I could have seen that!" Harry swore.

"We taught you well," Ron concurred.

"Excuse me," Hermione bristled. "I taught myself that! Third year…when I punched him, remember?"

Ron smiled nostalgically. "Was that really third year?"

"Yeah, and second year was your failed slug curse," Harry said.

"I maintain that I meant for the spell to backfire."

Harry snorted, and Hermione managed a small smile. Her pounding headache had dissipated slightly. "'Course, Ron, we know. Stupid me."

"Anymore butterbeer?" Was Hermione's contribution. Harry hurried to refill her goblet.

"Help yourself. Premium stuff, just for you."

"Not laced with poison, I hope," she said sleepily. Ron and Harry briefly looked confused, missing for a moment the reference to one of Malfoy's assassination attempts on Dumbledore.

Ron got it first, and smiled uneasily. "If it is, I'm sure Harry has a bezaor stone ready to revive you with!" He tried to play it off as a joke, but Hermione had unintentionally reminded them all of why they were here. Malfoy and his lightly veiled threats had not been a joke.

"I just can't believe he's finally back, after all these years," Hermione mused. "I suppose I had finally started to hope that he might just stay in America, you know?"

"Maybe he couldn't get any girls."

"So now he's hunting down Hermione?"

"Hey, you can't get any better!" Ron said, earning himself an appreciative smile.

"He's a right sick bastard."

"That's for sure, mate."

Hermione yawned, a long, drawn out, jaw-cracking affair. "So what should I do?"

Harry and Ron exchanged a glance. "Normally, I'd tell you to hex the ass and file suit against him," Harry said. "But this situation is a little more delicate."

"What are you doing about Fee?" Ron asked bluntly, and Hermione trembled a little.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I don't know what to do. I discussed this hypothetically and planned ways to deal with it when it happened but now that he's here I can't remember a thing, or understand anything, and I'm just so afraid…" She trailed off, and gave herself a little shake. "I need to be practical. Obviously, I am not capable of taking this to a court, and I'd rather not make a big deal out of his mild threats and date demand."

There was a pregnant pause. Hermione looked at Ron, and then at Harry. Ron looked at Harry. They all looked at each other. Hermione's face was scared and resolute, Ron's disgusted and angry, Harry's stalwart and resigned.

"So I'll go," Hermione said. "I knew what I was getting myself in to when I decided to have Ophelia, and never for a moment have I regretted it."

They all breathed out a collective sigh.

"So I'll go," Hermione repeated. "I don't have to enjoy it, hopefully he won't enjoy it, and this should be the end of it. His power trip will be satisfied."

She leaned back against the sofa, taking a long pull of butterbeer. Ron followed suit, draining his flagon and motioning to Harry to grab him another. There was a long silence, as they all took comfort in the company of friends.

Then, "What am I going to wear!?" Hermione cried, sitting up so quickly she nearly fell off the sofa.

&

Hermione turned away from her mother, unable to look her in the face. "You're sure Ophelia can't hear right now?" She asked for the third time.

Helen merely looked at her.

"Alright, I'm sorry, I'm just…" Helen laid a hand on her shoulder, but Hermione wrenched away, standing up from the table and going over to the mantelpiece. She toyed with one of the photo frames, depicting a ten-year-old Hermione standing on the edge of one of the Swiss Alps, arms splayed and a gap tooth smile plastered from ear to ear. "Mum," she said slowly. "Draco Malfoy came back."

Helen was still silent. Mothers understood some things, and one was that you had to allow your children their own time and space in which to tell you their story, or you'd never here the whole of it.

"He's back, mum, and a kind of lost my head." She picked up the picture frame, holding it in between her hands. "He asked me on a date." There was more silence, as Hermione tried to gather her scattered thoughts.

"But that's not even the worst part. I talked to Harry and Ron, decided I was going to go, and then it would be over, you know? Just get it over with. How bad can one date be?"

Her silence and resolution gradually evolved to anger as she continued. "It can be awful! And it will be! Because, when I saw him for the first time, just saw him, I just, something inside me _snapped_, and now I feel like I'm going crazy, like my anger is irrational and uncontrollable, because I can't stop _thinking_ about it, about him, about how I have to see him again and how I can't deal with him, with it, and mum," Hermione gasped, realizing belatedly that she had started to cry, "mum, I'm so _afraid_."

_Crack!_ She had snapped the glass of the picture frame in two.

"Oh!" Hermione cried, and then dropped gracelessly in to a cross legged position and started to cry in earnest, holding two pieces of broken glass with a jagged edge.

Helen moved across the room, laying a comforting hand on Hermione's shoulder that this time was not shrugged away. "It will be okay, Hermione," she said gently. "You've dealt with a lot worse than this before, you can deal with this now. It is not the end of the world."

"But what if it is?" Hermione whispered. "What if it's the end of everything I've created?"

"Stop thinking like that," Helen snapped. "Self-pity is unhelpful and extremely unattractive. You cannot let one measly man get to you like this!"

"He holds my job in his hands," Hermione said simply. "My life, in his hands. Worse, he holds Ophelia's. It's clear she's his child…if anyone saw them standing next to each other they'd know. The only thing that has saved me up until this point is that he hasn't been around for comparison, and no one would think to compare…" She trailed off, putting her face in her hands. "I don't know what to do," she admitted, brokenly.

Helen's patience was reaching the end of the rope. "Snap out of this, Hermione. You're an adult now, and you don't have time to mope. So you don't know what to do? Figure something out! This is not the huge problem that you're making it to be!"

"You don't understand!" Hermione shrieked, her voice rising several octaves. Her eyes were wild, and filled with desperation. "I can't lose to him! _HE CANNOT HAVE HER!_" The fear in her voice as she said these words was akin to a wild animal caught in a trap. Helen took a step back.

"Momma?" Hermione whipped her face around. Ophelia stood in the doorway, framed by morning light. She was heartbreakingly perfect. "Why are you crying?" She ran to throw her pudgy, toddler arms around Hermione, and suddenly she wasn't an angel anymore, but a real child of flesh and bone.

For a few minutes Hermione simply held on to Ophelia and cried into her hair. Ophelia, with the good sense and intuition of a child, held still, allowing her hair to be stroked and kissed. Finally, she had had enough.

"Glass break," she said, pointing at the glass on the floor. She looked up at Hermione. "Momma fix."

Hermione laughed, but there was a hysterical edge. "I can't, Ophelia, I broke it, it's broken now."

"Momma fix," Ophelia said, pointedly and confidently. Hermione laughed harder, but the hysteria began to slip away. Her shoulders shaking, she muttered the _reparo _spell.

"She's right, you know," Helen said, once Hermione had regained her composure, and sent Ophelia to the kitchen with her father for a glass of orange juice.

"What, that I'm a witch?" Hermione joked.

"It doesn't matter if you made this mess or not. You can live with two pieces of broken glass, or you can pull up your trousers and fix the problem."

"It's not that simple," Hermione said. "There's not a simple solution. Don't you think, if there was a way to simply make him disappear, that I wouldn't have tried that already?"

Helen raised an eyebrow. "He did disappear. Fat lot of good that did you, too. You spent all your time planning strategies to deal with him that you can't even implement."

"Well I wasn't expecting him to make quite such an entrance when he returned!" Hermione snapped. "If he weren't in charge of my funding, therefore owning my soul, then it wouldn't be such a huge problem!"

"There will always be _ifs_. You must learn how to deal with them. For example, if he hadn't been such a nasty person, then he would not have decided to abuse his power. If he hadn't known exactly how to make you hurt, he wouldn't have been able to. If you hadn't provided him with your vulnerability, he wouldn't have known it to take advantage of it." Helen looked calmly at her daughter.

"What do you mean?" Hermione cried, outraged. "You mean I should have just ignored the fact that he was trying to threaten me in to a, a," she choked, unable to say the word, "_date_ with him?"

"Maybe if you hadn't reacted so strongly and adversely he wouldn't have persisted," Helen said.

Hermione fumed, and the calmed herself. It was unusual for her to cause loud outbursts. As always, Malfoy brought out the worst in her, even when he wasn't around. When she said as much to her mother, however, she merely received a frustrating "you can't blame him for everything, Hermione."

"I have my limits," Hermione warned her mother as she left the room. "If he pushes me too far, I'll crack, and this will all look like nothing."

"Then don't let him test them," Helen said simply.


	7. Chapter 7

A/N: YES! I LOVE THIS CHAPTER! (Sorry...authoress overexcited.....) Anyways, hoping you all will share my excitement. LOVEEE to all my reviewers! Love, love, love you guys. Thanks for all your love and support.

&

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

&

Hermione felt awful. Her head ached, her hair felt as if it hadn't been washed in a month, and her feet were sore from standing. Malfoy had owled her earlier in the day, with specific instructions—_instructions_—on how to proceed regarding tonight. _The_ night.

"Ophelia! Ophelia, are you ready to go?" She had arranged for Ophelia to spend the night at Harry and Ginny's, and Ginny was coming by to pick her up and give Hermione some wardrobe tips.

The little girl pouted. "Momma, no wanna go," she whined, dragging her feet as she shuffled out of her bedroom. Her hair was in two pigtails and she had on a Dora the Explorer muggle backpack that Hermione had bought her in a fit of maternal pride.

"Hey cutie," Hermione cooed, ruffling her curls and kissing her chubby cheeks. "You're going to have so much fun at Uncle Harry and Aunt Ginny's tonight!"

Ophelia whimpered, and threw her arms around Hermione, who knelt down to give her a bear hug. "Momma, what about the werewolf under the bed?"

Hermione kissed Ophelia's forehead, breathing in the sweet scent of baby skin. "I'll make sure that Aunt Ginny knows to check for them. And I'll see you first thing tomorrow morning."

"Promise?"

"Pinky promise," Hermione offered, holding out her finger.

Ophelia solemnly entwined her chubby finger with Hermione's. "Otay."

"Hermione?" Ginny was knocking on the door. There was a moment's hesitation, and then she stepped inside, without waiting for Hermione to open it for her. "Hello stranger!"

"Ginny!" Hermione cried happily. She and Ginny were quite good friends, but it had been awhile since she had seen Harry's wife one-on-one. Too bad that the reason they finally managed to squeeze in some time was due to Hermione's impending doom.

Ginny slipped the door shut and enveloped Hermione in an embrace Mrs. Weasley would have been proud of. After a minute, she pulled back to give Hermione a critical once-over. "How have you been?"

"Fabulous."

Ginny raised an eyebrow at the sarcasm, but otherwise said nothing. "And who's this?" She asked, bending down so that she was eye-level with Ophelia, who was currently hiding behind Hermione's legs. "Who could this be?"

"Fee-fee." Ophelia timidly advanced from her fortress, looking curiously at Ginny.

"Remember me, Fee? Aunt Ginny?"

"Ownt Geenee?"

Ginny laughed warmly, and swept Ophelia in to her arms. "That's right!"

Ophelia gurgled, waving her arms. "Throw me! Throw me!" Obliging, Ginny tossed her in the air once or twice before setting her on the ground again.

"Alright, Ophelia," Hermione said seriously. "Auntie and Mommy are going to have a quick chat. Do you want to play with your blocks for a little bit?"

"No," said Ophelia obstinately, pouting again.

"What about your Barbies?" Hermione asked patiently, playing her trump card.

Ophelia's pout softened at the mention of her favorite muggle toy. She chewed her lip, and Hermione and Ginny held their breath. "Otay," she nodded, promptly took off her backpack, and headed in to the playroom.

"She's got some of her mother's stubbornness in her!" Ginny teased when Ophelia was safely out of sight.

Hermione laughed, giving her a playful shove. "I don't know what you're talking about." They migrated to her bedroom, where she had several outfits strewn across her bed.

Ginny tsked at the uncharacteristic mess. "So what exactly are you supposed to be dressed for?"

"Well," Hermione said, "he said he would be dragging me to an office function—cocktails of some sort I'm assuming—and then dinner afterwards."

"Verbatim?"

"He didn't use the word dragging, if that's what you mean."

Ginny snorted. "Probably something more along the lines of 'gracing you with the ability to attend.'"

"That might actually be verbatim," Hermione responded, straight faced. "I'm completely serious, Gin, he hasn't changed a lick since Hogwarts."

Ginny grinned, picking a blue top out of the tangle. "Oh, I certainly hope not," she said cryptically.

"So, to business," Hermione said after a moment's pause. "I'm not sure which direction I'm trying for. Hot or not? Do I want to blow everyone away or make Malfoy look like a fool for bringing a fool?"

"Humiliating yourself will get you nowhere," Ginny advised sagely. "On the other hand, look like a bombshell, feel amazing, and you win all around."

Hermione nodded at the good sense. "Yes, I had rather decided on that myself. Now… all that remains is finding something to aid me in that quest."

Ginny grinned wickedly. "Oh, we have all the materials we need…"

"I want everyone to eat their hearts out, but I don't want to be raped, again," Hermione cautioned.

"Just don't accept any drinks," Ginny said callously, waving a hand at her concern. She stuffed a slinky red _thing_ into Hermione's hands. "Here. Try this."

Hermione gaped at it. "There is no way I can wear this in public! I want to look stunning, not like I cost a few galleons an hour!"

Ginny laughed at that, and Hermione reluctantly snickered too. "Okay, so maybe not _that_ top. Why do you even have that, anyways? Oh my god, are you blushing?"

"No, no, no I'm not," Hermione yelped, trying to cover her burning cheeks with her palms. "Look, if you must know…" She stopped, and Ginny looked at her questioningly. "It was a present!" Hermione cried. "From my grandmother!"

Ginny collapsed with laughter. "Oh dear Merlin! She must really think you need to get out more."

Hermione sat primly on to her bed, smoothing the wrinkles from the covers on either side of her. "It was hers when she was younger. She said it showed off the—_ahem_—decollate very nicely."

"Decollate?"

"Chestal…region…" Hermione managed.

Ginny burst in to another bout of giggles. "Hermione, you are too much. What are we going to do with you?"

"Figure out a way that I don't have to go on this date with Malfoy?"

Ginny sighed, the sobriety of the evening puncturing the silliness of Hermione's wardrobe. "Honestly, I dunno. I think you're just going to have to stick it out tonight, girl." She sat down beside Hermione on the bed, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.

Hermione shrugged it off, standing up and going to her closet. "Dress or no dress?" Ginny looked at her helplessly. "Look, I'm sorry, I just don't want pity right now." She laughed. "After the big 'd' I'll need plenty of that. Right now it just makes it harder to go through with."

"What about an emergency drag away operation?"

"I doubt he's that stupid." Hermione made a face. "Much as I hate to give him credit, even an utter idiot wouldn't believe that."

"I suppose you're right. Um, let's go with a dress, then. What's that one, over there, yes, that one that you're trying to hide from me—" Ginny leapt up from the bed, diving past Hermione to wrench something out of the corner of her closet. "AHA!" She cried, holding up the offending object victoriously. "This is the one!"

&

When Hermione angrily flung open the door to her flat in response to Draco's arrogant knock (how one could make a knock arrogant is unknown, but he managed,) he was momentarily floored.

"Wow," he stammered. She was wearing a magenta dress that hit just above her knees, and hugged enough to tantalize but not to reveal. With her shoulders back and her hair swept back from her face to fall in elegant curls, she was the definition of grace and class.

For a moment she seemed taken aback and unsure, offering a shy smile. Then, recovering, she moved past him with a haughty motion and slammed the door. He barely glimpsed the inside of her apartment, but he thought he saw something strange. Was that a… She interrupted his thoughts. "Well?"

Draco smirked arrogantly, using the effect his presence had on her to his full advantage. "After you," he said, motioning down the corridor.

Hermione shot him a glare and began to walk, aware that her butt was under inspection. "You are despicable," she said over her shoulder.

"Ah, ah, ah, Granger, careful how you speak to me," he taunted. He came up behind her, his breath making the hairs rise on the back of her neck. "I _own_ you."

"I'm here, aren't I?" Was her only response. They were silent as he held the door for her and then held out his arm.

"Side-long apparition," he said in answer to her questioning glance. "To the function." Reluctantly, she placed her arm on his, an expression of repulsion creeping over her features. The familiar feeling of being stuffed in to a tube engulfed her, and for a second she forgot all about Draco, and this disastrous date, and protecting Ophelia.

Reality hit her full force with their abrupt landing on stone floor. She stumbled slightly, leaning heavily on Draco.

"Really, Granger," he drawled. "I know you can't keep your paws off of me but can you at least save it for when we're in private?"

She glared at him as the blood rushed to her face. "Don't flatter yourself."

"On the contrary," he said. "Don't flatter _your_self." He abruptly slid his arm from her grasp, and she swayed briefly. He muttered something that sounded vaguely like "filthy mudblood," and Hermione only barely managed to control her temper. Instead, she followed him through the double doors leading to the party.

"Mr. Malfoy!" Someone cried delightedly, shaking Draco's hand and clapping him delightedly on the back. "And, who, may I ask, is this?"

"Ernie, please meet my date for the evening, Hermione Granger," he said callously, neglecting to use her proper title as Healer.

Hermione smiled warmly, moving forward to greet her old friend. "I know Ernie MacMillian," she said happily. "We were prefects together in Hogwarts!"

"Well met, Hermione!" He exclaimed, jovial as ever, and kissed her on both cheeks. "What have you been doing with yourself?"

"Oh, this and that," she responded. "I'm working in St. Mungos right now, actually."

"Well, I never! You know Draco is heading our team allocating their funding at the moment." He winked. "Perhaps you can…loosen him up a little."

Hermione colored. "I did know that, actually," she said pointedly, shooting Draco a look. "And what have you been doing with yourself, Ernie?"

"I'm head of the Ministry's finance department," he said casually. "Draco's boss," he clarified, laughing. An idea began to take root in Hermione's mind, but for now she merely smiled sweetly and bid him good evening. With Draco's hand gripping her elbow, they began to mingle.

She met all the members of his team, and many others who were working in the Department of Finance. All had a smile for her and a word for Draco; it soon became clear that as a team leader he was a member of some prominence in the department. Hermione gritted her teeth and bore it, smiling and simpering where expected.

She had a bit of an escape, at one point, when she met Nick Poland. A member of Draco's team, his date was Luna Lovegood.

"Luna!" Hermione gave a hushed yell, and practically jumped the other woman.

Luna smiled tolerantly. "Hello Hermione, how have you been?"

"Oh, Luna," Hermione sighed. "I don't see you enough."

"I know," Luna replied. "Us Healers must stick together." Luna was a practicing mental Healer now, or a psychiatrist, as Hermione insisted on calling her. She ran a private practice in London that was in essence the psychiatric wing of St. Mungos. Luna herself ran the business and took on a few choice patients.

"How is your practice going?" Hermione asked curiously.

"Very well, thank you," Luna said, with her normal airy tone and glazed look. "We just hired a new Healer, and our group meeting statistics have reached an all time high. And yourself?"

Hermione loved to talk about her job, and to hear about other peoples' work. She grinned broadly. "We've been doing really well! My department for research into muggle medicine is really flourishing, and we've finally received enough funding to purchase some helpful machines and begin integrating certain muggle techniques."

Luna nodded. "Yes, in mental healing as well, muggles have made some surprising innovations, that can be impressive supplements to Wizarding techniques." Hermione's eyes lighted up at this, and Luna took the invitation to elaborate. "You know, of course, the muggle idea of breaking an addiction by simply abruptly cutting off the substance? Of the medical dangers of this, I'm sure you are aware, but this in tandem with certain potions can actually be extremely effective."

Hermione opened her mouth to begin asking a string of questions, but Draco cut her off. "Fascinating," he said smoothly, and steered her away.

"Hey!" Hermione yelped, infuriated. "That was really interesting."

"You're not here to be interested," Draco reminded her. "You're here to entertain me."

Hermione glared. "You are the worst person I have ever met."

"Then I guess you haven't met very many people," Draco responded blandly, refusing, for once, to rise to the bait.

"Enough to know."

He smiled patronizingly and shook his head, as one might to a willful child. "Come on, now, there are more people to meet than just Loony old Lovegood."

"How dare you?" Hermione whipped around, her hand held up as if she would claw at his face. "Luna is a better person than you could ever hope to be."

Draco grabbed her hand around the wrist, and pulled her close, so that they were nose to nose, Hermione's hands held on either side of her head by his own. "Do not compare me to her," he said quietly, ominously. "And stop making a scene."

Hermione trembled, anger and despair at her situation making it difficult to control herself. Feeling bile rise up in throat from their proximity, she took a deep breath and freed herself from his grasp.

Draco was reluctant to relinquish his hold. "Can you behave yourself?" He asked silkily.

"Better than you," was Hermione's only response.

"I have done nothing but behave impeccably this evening, Granger," he responded smoothly. "Can you say the same for yourself?"

"Unlike you, I was also forced to attend against my will, with someone I despise."

Draco smiled tightly. "And after your little _fit_, I wish I had taken someone else."

Hermione smiled back poisonously. "So do I, Malfoy, so do I. But you had to force me to succumb to your will, remember?"

"You're not doing an awfully good job, so far," he observed dryly. Hermione almost laughed, but she abruptly remembered who she was talking to, and swallowed it.

"I wonder why? It's such a pleasant assignment," she bit out, dripping with sarcasm.

Draco shrugged arrogantly. "I know at least five women who would happily kill to be in your shoes right now."

"Then why couldn't you take them, instead?" Hermione demanded, enraged. He looked at her with hooded eyes, taking a step forward. Reflexively, Hermione gulped and took a step back. Her nerves tingled with fear and hatred at the memory of the night, five years ago, when he had looked at her in much the same way. "I loathe you," she informed him. "With every fiber of my being."

"Hence my enjoyment in watching you suffer."

"You're a sick bastard, I'll give you that."

"As opposed to you," he quipped, "who are merely a bastard."

Hermione turned away from him. "Sticks and stones may break my bones," she said, quoting an old muggle nursery rhyme, "but words can never hurt me."

"Now what in the world makes me think that those words are a bald faced lie?" Draco mused. "Perhaps the fact that you have risen to my bait, twice, now, and lunged at me?" When she refused to acknowledge him, he continued, trying to prod a rise from her. "Maybe you're just feisty," he said. "But then… I already knew that. You should have seen the marks you left—"

He never finished. Hermione forcefully brushed past him, hands clenched in her fists by her sides. He watched her weave her way through the crowd to the ladies room, and smiled evilly.

&

Hours later, Hermione could take no more of the dreaded 'mingling.' The office function seemed to drag on, and on, and _on_, until she could barely see straight from exhaustion.

"My feet and my lower back are killing me," she moaned to Draco, swallowing her pride and practically begging for an out.

He was merciless. "You shouldn't have worn high heels."

"I had to, with this dress!"

"What?"

"Malfoy, I am not going to discuss the finer points of fashion with you, of all people, right now. It's past midnight, and I'm starving and exhausted."

He waved off her complaints. "We'll go to dinner soon. I want to introduce you to," he looked over the crowd, clearly searching for someone, but Hermione had had enough.

"No. I am going to leave, now," she informed Draco. "You can come, or not, I don't care. I've put up with about all I can take." She began walking toward the exit, Draco following.

"Careful," he warned. "I _own_ you."

Hermione snapped. "I know, Malfoy," she shot back tartly, stopping briefly to turn around and poke him in the chest. "You haven't ceased rubbing that little fact in my face since we met."

"Re-met, I believe," he said silkily, and watched her back stiffen as she continued to walk. They reached the exit, and he held the door for her with a mocking bow.

By the time they reached the puddle of light from a lamppost, Hermione had a comeback at the ready. "That's funny. I don't quite _remember_ our previous meeting."

Watching him closely, she saw him briefly blanch at her thinly veiled reference. "Kind of odd, considering how you _begged_ me for it," he retorted angrily.

Hermione stuck her nose in the air. "That was low, even for you."

"You certainly went low, that last night." Her hand twitched towards his face, but he caught it before it struck his cheek, dragging her in against him. "What, Granger?" He leered, his face inches from hers.

"You would know Malfoy," she said sweetly, masking her rage at his comment and discomfort at their proximity. "After all, I was only _returning_ the _favor_."

He colored, and she knew the thrill of success. "You do that for a lot of men, Granger?" He asked, eyes glittering dangerously. "Return favors?"

"Only the ones that are significantly better than you were, Malfoy," she snapped, wrenching away from his grip. She realized belatedly that they were in public, making a scene. Not that there was really anyone around to notice.

"You clearly didn't have any complaints! In fact, quite the opposite."

"That's really funny, considering how I was on the verge of alcohol poisoning at the time!" Hermione shouted at him, losing it. "REALLY, REALLY ODD, IN FACT. Really interesting, how I behaved out of character. Not that _fucking_ someone I detest is out of character, OR ANYTHING!"

Draco made as if to restrain her, but she stepped away. "But wait. Who's fault is it, that I got so drunk? Who arranged it, so that they could take advantage of me? Hang on a second, WHO RAPED ME, MALFOY, ANSWER ME THAT!" She screamed, not waiting for his response.

He was silent.

"That's what I thought," she said hoarsely, turning away.

Malfoy lunged, grabbing her arm. "Where are you going?" He asked arrogantly.

"I'm leaving," she told him simply. "I was crazy to think I could do this. Our date is over."

"I'm not finished with you," he growled, and violently pinned her against the lamppost. Hermione struggled mindlessly, briefly overcome with anger, fear, and pain.

"I suppose you're not," she spat, and Draco dropped her like he had been burned, moving away from her.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"What do you think?"

"Enlighten me."

"Why don't you just take me, right here?" She snarled at him, her features contorted with hatred and fear. "We all know that's the sort of _animal_ you are, Malfoy. Now you don't even have to get me drunk."

The color was slowly draining from his face. "Shut up, Granger, you don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?" Hermione taunted, staring him down, rewarded by the gleam of guilt in his eyes.

The streetlamp, the publicity, all was forgotten as the world narrowed to include only them. "No," he growled, advancing again. "You have absolutely no idea."

"What are you going to do?" She asked, bold and fearless finally, the anger burning out all other emotions. "Rape me, Malfoy? Beat me? You're not really very original, are you?" Draco took another step and she held her ground. Irrationality was rising in her like a tide.

The street was empty.

_Anything_ could happen.


	8. Chapter 8

A/N: Edited repost as of 06/19/12. Trying to make this story a little more consistent: I was a younger writer, Hunting will be better.

**Chapter 8**

"_What are you going to do?" She asked, bold and fearless finally, the anger burning out all other emotions. "Rape me, Malfoy? Beat me? You're not really very original, are you?" Draco took another step and she held her ground. Irrationality was rising in her like a tide. _

_The street was empty. _

Anything_ could happen._

"What are you going to do?" Hermione demanded again, and Draco teetered on the brink. For a heart-stopping second, it was unclear whether or not her taunts had pushed him over it.

He turned away.

"Coward!" A pause. His back remained toward her.

"You can only take advantage of women when they're drunk, is that it? Does that make it excusable for you, less _real_? Let me tell you something, Malfoy, let me _enlighten_ you a little bit. It is real people whose lives you destroy with this, this little _game_ you play, and women are _injured._ Women, susceptible women, their lives are _ruined_. And it's your fault! You," she was breathing heavily, "are a bad person."

He laughed harshly, turning. "You think I care? You think I give a damn about anyone else? Why should I? I'm Draco Malfoy, and I'll do whatever I bloody well please. And Granger, just so you know, if I told you to get down on your knees, you'd do it. Because," he paused for effect, "I have that kind of power."

"You're delusional," she said wonderingly. "You're callous and cruel, and absolutely psychotic."

He moved in, gripping her wrists, looming too close. "That's where you're wrong. That's where you lose, goody-goody Granger. That's where you realize that you've misinterpreted all the signals, that it's just been one, huge mistake."

"Going to violate me now, Malfoy? I'm in your power, once again. All that's left is to just _give in_, just like before. Hold me down, why don't you? You can, we both know it. You're bigger than I am, stronger than I am, what's stopping you?" He let go, took a step back, looking tired, shaken, scared. "Fuck you!" Hermione screamed.

She ripped off her dress, stood there, on the dark street, in her underwear, in her plain white cotton bra and knickers. "Go ahead, Malfoy!" She cried, eyes and hair wild, as crazed and uncontrollable as she was. "This is who you are, isn't it? A _rapist_. So do it. I dare you!"

"Put your dress back on."

"Now you're afraid? What was stopping you before?"

"Just put them back on, Granger, and stop making such a bloody fool out of yourself!" His voice cracked like a whip, but Hermione stood there proudly.

"I'm not ashamed," she said, placing her hands on her hips.

Her shrugged callously, eyeing her up and down. "Nothing I haven't seen before."

"And whose fault is that?"

"I was thinking purely for your benefit," Draco said. "If someone were to walk by right now…"

"Since when do you care, Malfoy?" She spat, blazing. "Don't feed me some utter crap about caring. All you care about is yourself, and getting what you want."

His face darkened, and he pressed himself against her, covering her unclothed body with his own. "So far, Granger, you seem to be obliging me…"

She made an elaborate show of checking her watch. "Well I don't have all night, so are you going to have your way with me, or not?"

Malfoy cracked.

"And you accuse me of being out of my mind? You are the single most batshit crazy person I've ever met in my life, hands down! _For your information, Granger_, I didn't rape you! I have never raped you, or anyone else, in my entire life, and I have certainly never ruined any girl's life from sleeping with them. As a point of fact, I have probably _improved_ them." Hermione snorted humorlessly. "You want to know what happened, Granger, when you discovered that you couldn't hold your alcohol?" At her surprised glance he smirked. "Oh, yeah, you tried to blame that on me? Huh, like I would ever actually _want _to sleep with you. You were _begging_ for it. You were all over me. If anything, I should be after _you_ for practically raping _me_."

"YOU LIAR!" Hermione shrieked uncontrollably. "You're making this up! I know you spiked my drink, and you know what? You know what? DO YOU WANT TO KNOW SOMETHING, MALFOY?"

"What?" He raised an eyebrow, looking unimpressed at her outburst.

"You _did_ ruin my life," Hermione said, suddenly quiet. "Or at least, for a very long time, it felt like you had."

He stepped forward then, crushing her against him in an intolerably delicious grip, and she shuddered, once, before allowing herself to collapse against him. Something had changed between them, in that moment when he breached the gap. As Hermione slowly became boneless in the arms of Draco Malfoy, her arch-nemesis extraordinaire, something broke.

She was never quite sure afterwards how she had gotten home, but at any rate the next morning found her, in her flat, still in her underwear from the night before, sans dress. She remembered throwing it on to the street, and apparently had never picked it up again.

"Not that I would ever want to be reminded of that night again, anyways," she muttered as she washed her face, but the thriftiness in her squealed in protest at the waste.

She picked up her toothbrush, beginning to scrub as she examined herself in the mirror. "I don't regret any of my behavior," she muttered around a mouthful of toothpaste. "Sure, I lost my temper, but this has been five years in the making." She frowned a little, ditching the brush for some floss, and finally moved on to tackling her tangled mass of curls.

Yanking the comb through her hair, Hermione finally gave up entirely and turned on the shower. "I don't really have time, but…" She checked her watch. She was picking Ophelia up for a quick breakfast together before work. "That is the one thing I regret," she told her shampoo bottle, quickly scrubbing it through her hair. "I didn't mean to allude to Ophelia, _or_ imply that she in any way ruined my life. That is one thing I would attribute solely to my temper speaking. It was anger at the idea of being forced in to having a child, rather than anger at the child herself."

By the time she had exited the shower and dressed, Hermione slightly better. She tried not to think about the ending of the fight, the almost-truce that it seemed they had almost established. She repressed the thoughts of his strong arms around her (admittedly scantily clad frame, as she had just ripped off her dress).

"I'm a strong woman, thank-you-very-much," Hermione told the mirror, spinning and admiring the view of her rear in the tight slacks. "And, okay, yes, it was nice to get that off my chest. It's just—it's so _complicated_, with us. Because there was alcohol involved." She wagged a finger. "Sex with alcohol and people who you have questionable feelings for is an extremely bad plan."

She sat down on the edge of her bed, burying her hands in her hair as she tilted her head forward, overcome by a wave of nausea. She hated thinking about that night, mostly because of the anger, but partially because of the feeling of powerlessness that it would often bring.

"Did her really rape me?" She whispered, barely able to voice the thought, even to herself.

_Can I accuse him of that in cold blood, or is it the anger talking? _

This thought, she couldn't bring herself to voice. Perhaps because it rang too true. _Anger at who? _ Her conscience whispered, and she knew that answer.

_Herself._

"Ophelia?"

"Momma?"

"What would you like to do tonight?" Hermione asked, plopping down next to Ophelia as she carefully piled blocks on top of each other. It was Wednesday night, and the two hadn't been out of the house in a couple days. "We always get ice cream, so I was wondering if you wanted to do something different tonight?"

Ophelia nodded emphatically. "Yewah."

Hermione raised an eyebrow at the word-mash but otherwise said nothing. "And we did books last time, so I was thinking… If I read a little extra to you tonight and tomorrow night to make up for it… How about a film?"

Ophelia leaped up, knocking over all the blocks and clearly not caring. Clapping her hands together, she danced around the room. "Film! Film! Film!"

"We can go to the cinema and everything, there's a few new ones out that I think you would like," Hermione said happily. Ophelia continued to dance and chant. "I'll go get the bicycle!"

Hermione laboriously unlocked the small garage that they shared with a few of the neighbors, dragging out their ancient bicycle. It had once been black, but was now a sort of rusted gray. An old babyseat was perched on the back, looking slightly worse for wear.

"Hm. That seat's beginning to look a little small for you…"

"Wanna bike of my own!" Ophelia cried immediately.

Hermione shook her head emphatically. "No, no, it's much too dangerous, you're far too young… Do you know how many injuries the muggle emergency room sees from bicycle accidents?"

"Wanna bike."

Hermione sighed. "We'll see." _She really should start learning how to ride a broom,_ she thought absently. _I wonder if Ron would mind giving her a few lessons? _

"Go now?" Ophelia was eager to be off. They decided on a muggle animated film, in a cinema near Hermione's parents' house. Normally they would just take public transportation, or walk to a closer one, but today Hermione felt like a bike ride was just the thing.

Buckling Ophelia in, and haphazardly hopping onto the (mildly uncomfortable) banana-shaped seat, they were off. With each push of the pedal they whizzed through the busy streets of muggle London, Ophelia laughing and clapping her hands with delight. Hermione's hair fanned out behind her and the cool evening air whipped her face. She felt carefree for the first time in ages.

"This is delightful! We're biking everywhere from now on," she told Ophelia, who nodded emphatically.

The movie was funny and the popcorn crunchy, but the best part of the evening was the bike ride. It was late by the time they got home, and Hermione lifted a sleepy Ophelia from the old seat. She was soft and warm, and still carried the baby scent around her. She buried her face in Ophelia's curls, clutching the little girl to her tightly.

After ensuring that Ophelia was fast asleep, Hermione flooed Ron.

"Hello?" She called, closing her eyes and pushing her head through the green flames. "Ron, it's me, Hermione."

She heard a clatter, and the jarring clang of broken glass emanated from the kitchen. "Merlin, Hermione!" Ron's voice came through from the hall, accompanied by several choice curses. "What are you trying to do to a bloke?"

Hermione laughed. "Can I come over?"

Ron's head finally appeared, poking out from behind the kitchen door. His hair was sticking up in odd places, and it seemed to Hermione that he hadn't shaved in a couple days. "Um, it's not really a great time right now, Hermione…" He began, gesturing vaguely towards the kitchen.

"Fine," Hermione said breezily, slightly miffed. "I simply wanted to say hullo, and ask a favor."

"Hullo," Ron said dully. "Well, go on then."

Hermione frowned at his atypical behavior. "I was wondering if you would mind giving Ophelia some broom lessons?"

Ron smirked, almost nastily. "I thought you were so paranoid you wouldn't even let her run?"

"Ron!" Hermione admonished. "What's gotten in to you?"

He laughed. "I'll come by tomorrow—don't worry, she'll be safe with me."

Hermione shook her head dubiously. "Alright, well, we'll be around the flat tomorrow evening, then."

"Draco?"

Draco's head shot up from his porridge. His eyes were bloodshot. "Yes, mother?"

Narcissa looked momentarily sidetracked at his abysmal appearance. "Draco, darling, were you out drinking last night?"

"No," he said slowly, taking a long sip of coffee. "Why?"

"Oh, no reason," Narcissa idly picked up a piece of toast, slowly buttering it and playing with the jam.

Draco finally managed to pull himself from his self-absorption. "What were you going to ask me?"

"Never you mind, dearest."

He sighed, running a hand through his head. "I'm going to work." On the way out, one of the house elves stopped him. Hinky, or someone. He couldn't keep all their names straight. "Yes?" He barked, beginning to get annoyed.

The elf squeaked, its ears trembling. "Master," he, or she, _it_, said. "Master, it's Mistress."

"Well, what?"

"Master not eat often with Mistress, no?"

"Look, is there some kind of point to this conversation?" Draco demanded, hands on hips.

"Mistress not eat anything."

Draco shrugged. "Whatever. She probably just hasn't really been hungry lately, or something."

"Maybe Mistress miss old Master," the elf suggested hesitantly, timidly peering up at Draco.

"And maybe she doesn't!" Draoc snapped, enraged at the elf's impertinence and the allusion to his father. He snatched his coat and umbrella, angrily flung open the door, and closed it with a snap. "Of all the ridiculous, unnecessary things…" He muttered under his breath, as he apparated to the Ministry. "She probably skipped one dinner or something because she was tired, and everyone goes crazy."

"Momma, where Nuncle Ron?"

Hermione checked her watch. It was 7:00, and already pitch black, and Ron had never come. "Honey, I guess he was busy tonight. I'm sure he'll visit tomorrow." She pinched the bridge of her nose, feeling odd. Ron never, _ever_ missed a commitment, regardless of whether or not they specified an exact time.

"Not gonna do anything tonight?"

"Well…" Hermione could barely finish. _What_ had happened to Ron? Was he ill? Should she be dragging him to St. Mungos. "I might just floo Ron quickly, honey," she told Ophelia.

Ophelia frowned. "No fun. Wanna fun."

"Maybe…" Hermione desperately grabbed at threads. "Maybe if you wait like a good girl we can go see a film! If you promise to be good I'll let you stay up late…"

"Yes! Be very good." Ophelia raced off to pack the bookbag she had recently insisted on toting everywhere, and Hermione was free to floo Ron. Hesitantly, she stuck her head in to the green flames, unwilling to cause another glass-shattering disruption. "Ron?" She called, looking around his familiar living room.

It was dark and empty, without the usual warm light and good smells emanating from the kitchen. From the eerie light of the dying fire, Hermione noticed it seemed messier than usual. She frowned, pulling her head back to her own cozy living room, debating whether or not to call Harry.

Deciding against a floo call during dinner hours, she dashed him a quick note.

"Aphrodite," she cooed, tying the note to her foot and feeding her handsome owl a quick treat. "This is for Harry. Stay the evening at his house—he'll understand—because Ophelia and I won't be home until later." Aphrodite blinked at her. "Ophelia!" Hermione called. "We're sending Aphrodite to deliver a letter, come say goodbye!"

Ophelia raced out of her room, curls flying everywhere. "NO! Dye-tee, stay!" She wailed, flinging herself on the cave. Aphrodite solemnly bowed her head, and submitted to precisely two head stroked, before stepping onto Hermione's proffered finger and allowing herself to be transported to the window. "Bye!"

Finished, Ophelia raced for the door, Hermione for the bike. "Film! FILM!" Ophelia cried.

The crowded city streets flew by as Hermione pedaled faster and faster, Ophelia shouting and giggling with delight.

Her stomach growled a little, reminding her that she shouldn't have skipped breakfast this morning. Frustrated, Hermione shook her head, relishing the feeling of her curls sliding across her back. She pushed down on the pedal, whizzing by lampposts, mailboxes and rubbish bins.

The wind picked up, whipping her face, chilling her when moments before it had been a welcome caress. Hermione leaned back in to the seat, trying to find a comfortable position on the rickety bike.

Everything seemed to be picking up, suddenly coalescing, the music of the traffic suddenly harsh and discordant. The bustling London street was abruptly ominous, and the faces swam in front of her, pooling and roiling, a voiceless mass.

Ophelia's shrieks of pleasure shot bolts of fear to Hermione's stomach as the bike began to teeter. She thought again of Ron and her stomach turned over with a curious blend of fear and anxiety.

She was dizzy, trying to gasp a lungful of air, but it was heavy like water and weighed her down. Her head felt at once light and floaty, but heavy and foggy. Everything spun and turned black as Ophelia's terrified scream of "Mama!" tore through the air.

"Ginny!" Harry's brows were furrowed together, and he looked genuinely concerned.

"Yes?" Ginny brushed his hair off of his forehead, gently leaning against him in a comforting way. He mutely held out Hermione's letter.

"She's worried about him," he told her when she had finished reading. "Should we be, too?"

Ginny frowned. "I haven't really seen him much lately…" She hesitated. "I thought it was just because of practice, and I know he's been tired…" She trailed off. "Let's just invite him over. I'm sure it's no real cause for alarm, but none of us want to fall out of touch."

Harry nodded uneasily, but forced a smile on to his face. "Have Hermione too. We'll have a regular party!"

"A dinner party!" Ginny cried. "How delightful! I miss having dinner parties."

Harry felt momentarily guilty, as if he had somehow prevented her from indulging in this side of her personality. "Why don't you make it a bash, and invite your parents as well? We could even invite the Grangers."

Ginny smiled hugely. "What a wonderful idea. I'll send out invitations!"


	9. Chapter 9

**Chapter 9**

A muggle ambulance took them to a local private hospital, somehow gleaning the information of who Hermione was, and managing to contact her mother. Ophelia, miraculously, was unhurt apart from the usual bumps and scrapes, but Hermione was unconscious and her left arm was suspiciously swollen.

Upon waking later that evening, the first thing Hermione saw was a kind looking muggle physician standing over her, shaking his head ruefully.

"Miss Granger," he admonished her gently, "you have not been taking care of herself."

Hermione colored slightly at the reprimand, giving herself a quick once over. She probably had a mild concussion, and the plaster cast on her arm suggested a broken wrist. "I know…" she said softly, allowing the words to trail off. Abruptly, her mind performed the jump to real time. "Ophelia!" She cried, flinging herself forward, gasping, her chest constricting and her pulse rushing.

"Relax!" The doctor placed a hand on each of her shoulders and firmly pushed her back in to a lying position. "Your daughter is fine—much better than you are, in fact, and will be able to visit you soon."

Hearing these kindly, reassuring words, Hermione promptly burst in to tears. "I'm an awful mother," she sobbed, much to the young doctor's bafflement. "I've barely seen her in the past few weeks, I've been so preoccupied with everything else going on—oh, she could have gotten so injured, my god—I can't believe I've neglected her…."

"Your daughter is fine," he repeated, and then looked at her seriously. "You, on the other hand, are not. Have you been getting any sleep or eating anything at all lately?"

"Yes, yes," she said absently, shrugging off his words and wiping her face. "I think I'm fine to walk—may I please visit my daughter?"

"I think it would be better if she were to visit you. Also, you have a very concerned mother and father who are eager to see that you're well."

Hermione groaned. "Oh, Merlin." The doctor looked at her strangely, and she colored at her slip-up. "I mean, they're just sure to overreact… oh, dear…" Raising an eyebrow at her odd behavior, but no doubt attributing it to her concussion, he headed off to get the visitors.

"Hermione!" Her mother threw herself on the bed, grabbing her shoulders and pulling her in to a hug.

"Momma!" Ophelia followed suit, and Steve Granger stood in the doorway, smiling with relief.

"What were you thinking?" Helen cried, still holding her tightly. "What happened?" Ophelia seemed content merely to snuggle against her.

Hermione felt overwhelmed, and checked herself before she burst in to tears yet again. "How did you find me? Where are we, anyways?"

"A private muggle hospital in London," Steve told her. "It's called St. Joseph's, have you heard of it?" Hermione nodded briefly—it was actually quite a posh, expensive place—and Steve continued. "The muggle ambulance just took you to the closest local place. Oh, and the EMTs found your name and address in your wallet, and they also said something about an ID bracelet on you and Ophelia…?"

Hermione blushed and laughed. "Yes, I'm a little paranoid. But I'm a doctor, I couldn't help myself!"

Helen didn't laugh. "I'm glad you did," she said. "If you hadn't had your wallet, they could have been necessary!" Immediately, she switched modes. "But what I want to know, Hermione, is what in the world you were doing speeding around the streets of muggle London all alone while you were feeling unwell!"

"Well, Mum, see…" Hermione trailed off, thinking about Ron. "I decided to take Ophelia to see a film at a local theater, but I don't know. I think I must have run in to a lamppost or something."

"For shame, Hermione, you know better than that," Helen scolded. "You're a doctor, for goodness' sakes! Why weren't you wearing a helmet?"

"You won't even let Ophelia ride a bike because you say it's too dangerous," Steve chimed in. "What are you doing riding one without even a helmet?"

Hermione lay back on the pillows, gathering Ophelia in to her arms, as she felt the pounding ache of a migraine beginning. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "I just…"

Helen leaned forward to continue chastising, but Steve put a hand on her arm. "I think that's enough for now. She looks worn out."

"Who's side are you on?" Helen demanded, but only mock irately. She looked at Hermione with concern. "Dearest?"

"Yes, mum?"

"There _are_ some other visitors out there, who we sort of jumped in front of…"

"_Mum_!" Hermione cried, enraged, mind immediately racing to Ron. They must have called them all. Ron and Harry were sure to be here by now—Merlin knew how many times she'd visited them in hospital, and since Ophelia was born this was only the second time she'd been on the wrong side of the bed.

Helen laughed, and Steve opened to door to motion in Harry and Ginny. Surprisingly, Luna was also there.

"Where's Ron?" Hermione frowned at the plaintive note in her voice.

Harry awkwardly combed his fingers through his hair, like he always did when he had to tell you something you didn't want to hear. "He, uh, he couldn't make it, Hermione. I, uh, yeah. I'm sorry."

"We brought you flowers, though!" Ginny chirped, clearly trying to be cheerful. She came around, sitting on the other side of the bed. "How are you, Ophelia?" She asked seriously.

"Good," Ophelia answered. "But Momma has boo-boo."

"Yes, she does. But we'll make her all better soon!"

Ophelia grinned, snuggling into Hermione's stomach. "Mm-hmm."

"Hello Hermione," Luna said, rather dreamily. "This isn't actually a magical hospital, but they're liason contacted St. Mungos. Mungos sent me to make sure you were psychologically intact."

Hermione had always found it rather amusing that the girl they had called Loony Lovegood in school was now the one responsible for counseling insane people in to sanity, and she barely suppressed an ironic snort at this statement. "Mildly concussed, I believe, but still psychologically here," she replied.

"They're worried it was some sort of suicide attempt gone wrong," Luna told her frankly, and Helen Granger blanched.

"Why would they have any reason to think that?"

"I don't know," Hermione said, completely bewildered. "It certainly was nothing of the sort. I'm, uh, I'm very happy with my life." It felt strange to say. Depression had never even been on her radar.

Luna blinked, looking, as usual, rather dreamy. "Oh, I know. I just had to ask—standard procedure, you understand. Really, we just wanted to make sure you were alright." Hermione smiled.

"So, I'm sure you've already told your parents," Harry began, "but what exactly happened."

Hermione blushed a little, recalling the large factor her stupidity had played. "Well, basically, we were bike riding a little too fast, and I wasn't wearing a helmet, and I didn't see this pole, and we had quite a crash, I think, but I hit my head when I fell off, so I actually don't remember much…"

They asked her a multitude of questions, and she was obliged to apologize for her lack of headgear several more times, but she managed to avoid mentioning how deeply Ron's absence had affected her concentration.

Finally, the young doctor came back. Hermione noticed that Ginny turned to her and raised her eyebrows, but she responded with an emphatic head shake. She didn't do muggle men. "Alright, guys, visiting hours are over for tonight," he said apologetically. "They want to keep an eye on her for tonight, make sure the concussion recovers normally, but she should be right as rain and ready to go by tomorrow."

Hermione kissed them all goodbye, holding tightly to Ophelia before allowing her to head off with her grandparents. Harry was the last to hug her and kiss her cheek, but he pulled away before she could grab his sleeve and ask him where Ron had got to.

"Love you," Ginny called, peeping out the door as the doctor shooed them all away. "We're going to have a dinner party to celebrate you getting well once you're out of the hospital."

"Sounds lovely," Hermione said with genuine warmth, and the door clicked shut. Checking her watch, she realized it was almost midnight. Horrified that she had caused everyone the inconvenience of visiting a hospital so late, she dropped off to sleep.

Draco was going crazy. Memos were flying in incessantly, everyone wanted to talk to him, his trainees and employees were running every-which-way, and to top it all off he was starving, because he hadn't eaten enough breakfast in his rush to get out of the house. It was the second day in a row that his mother had questioned him about drinking, and again the damned house elf had harassed him on his way out. It wasn't like his mother was on the verge of collapse! He didn't see what the big problem was.

He was tempted to call down to Erwin for his fifth cup of coffee. "I really need to get a flat of my own," he growled instead, "because if I have to keep living with my mother I'm going to go insane."

"What was that, Mr. Malfoy?"

Draco looked up, surprised, at the younger man entering the room. "Who are you, and who let you in here?" He demanded, angrily.

"I'm from Dr. Grey," the man said carefully, looking at Draco pointedly.

Draco relaxed momentarily at the knowledge of who the man was, but the fact that he had been sent by Dr. Grey immediately put him on the alert. He stood, pushing in his chair, and walking out from behind the desk to grab his coat from the rack. "Let's go," he said tersely.

The man looked surprised. "How did you-?"

They were out the door without a second glance, Draco sparing only a moment for Erwin. "I've got to go. Forward my mail."

"But, Mr. Malfoy…"

"You know where to go?" Draco asked the assistant, man, inferior, whatever.

"Yes, but, Mr. Malfoy, how," the man sputtered.

Draco had no time for pleasantries. Heading for the apparition section of the Ministry, he immediately apparated home.

"What is going on!" He roared, upon entering the front door. "How many times do I have to tell you, if she won't eat lunch it _just doesn't matter that—_"

"Mr. Malfoy?" Their family's oldest friend, Dr. Herbert Grey, turned the corner, exiting the living room. Once a young man, his hair was now graying, and he suited his name. Draco had known him since he was a boy, and many a scrape incurred from excessive tree climbing had been bandaged by the Herb.

"Herb," he said, inclining his head, all anger at being called away from work forgotten. Originally a Swede, and having received a medical and research degree from the prestigious Swedish University of Medicine and Magic, Dr. Grey had befriended Draco's parents upon moving to England. Few people merited Draco Malfoy's good opinion, and even fewer received his respect. Grey was one of the few.

"Draco, there's not time for social niceties. Your mother has just collapsed, and needs medical attention immediately."

Draco blanched, but knew that now was not the time for panic. "Right. I don't want this to be public knowledge in the wizarding world. Does she need magical attention?"

"My god, man, does it matter? She just needs a doctor, and a tube down her throat giving her food!" Grey bellowed. "How long have you been allowing this to go on for!"

"Alright, I know a private muggle place that will suffice," Draco responded coldly. "Get mother—where is she? We can apparate to an alley outside, they'll know what to do."

Grey shook his head, but made no other comment. He motioned to Draco to follow him in to the living room, where Narcissa lay unconscious on the sofa. Draco noticed detachedly how painfully thin she had become, and the large purple bags beneath her eyes. Something very like guilt crept through his stomach.

"Help me lift her. We'll do side-along apparition, you taking both of us." They carefully picked her up, placing her in Draco's arms like a child.

Draco nodded, and a moment later they appeared in an alley outside the hospital, startling a homeless man rooting through the trash.

Shuffling to hold Narcissa, though she weighed next to nothing, they entered the sliding glass doors. Grey looked pointedly at Draco. "Let me do the talking."

"Can I help you?" A nurse, wearing a neat little cap over her blonde hair, looked up from the desk.

"Yes," Grey said, smiling pleasantly. We were actually wondering where the Emergency Room is? My sister just collapsed." He stepped out of the way of Draco, revealing the prone figure of Narcissa.

"Oh! My! Yes, here, let me just get you a stretcher," the nurse cried, springing from her seat and dashing away. She came back moments later pushing a neat white stretcher bed, on to which Draco gently placed Narcissa. They walked behind her to the Emergency Wing of the hospital, where several doctors took over. One began to examine Narcissa, taking her to a room, and a nurse questioned Draco on her recent behavior.

"You mentioned concern about her not eating enough?"

"Yes," he said haughtily. "One of the servants brought it to my attention. I didn't think it was a big problem, until," he gestured.

She sniffed, apparently disagreeing with his approbation of the situation. "Any triggers for this kind of behavior? Has she struggled with an eating disorder in the past? Recently lost a family member?"

"No." To his left, Grey coughed pointedly. Draco let out an irritated sigh. "Although he hasn't been living with her for many years, her husband is recently deceased," he said, shooting the other man a glare.

"I see… Well, that should be all for now. If you two gentlemen don't mind, I'll show you to the waiting room, and we'll send someone for you when there's news."

They followed as she led them to a small, neat room down the hall, where several other people were already sitting. Draco would have scanned them further, profiling them for muggle germs and diseases, but he was too annoyed with Grey to bother.

"What are you playing at, Herb!" He demanded, throwing himself in to a chair. "You know I dislike giving out personal details to people I don't know and trust. And to a muggle, to tell them of an exceptionally intimate family event…!"

"Draco," Grey said in a placating tone, "I don't specialize in psychology—"

"Exactly! You _don't_ specialize in psychology!"

"You're being very rude." Draco snapped his jaw shut, feeling his cheeks burning with anger and humiliation. "Don't be utterly dense. You know that if she has been deliberately, or unconsciously, restricting her food intake, that this is probably related."

"And if she hasn't? If this is just some huge misunderstanding, and the cause is completely unrelated, yet, like house elves, these little muggle doctors harp on this one possible cause for weeks because of the crazy muggle media and their idiotic ideals of female bodies?"

"Then," Grey said calmly, "we'll figure it out from there. But Draco, you know that's not really the problem."

Effectively silenced, Draco did not reply.

After a while, Grey turned to him. "What'd you think of the man I sent for you?"

"That rabbit?" Draco snickered. "He looked about ready to jump out of his pants when I reacted to your name like an emergency signal."

Grey smiled. "You liked Georges, did you? He's a good boy. Attending a top school in France right now, he's my sister's nephew. Yeah, he must have been pretty confused if you jumped right up."

"France, eh? I thought I recognized the accent. Look at you, doing charity work," Draco drawled, unwillingly being drawn out of his sulky temper.

"You still speak French? I'm sure he'd be glad of a reminder of his native land."

"When I can. I've been thinking about picking up Russian, recently. I heard they may need a new ambassador there eventually, and I actually enjoyed my position in America."

"Would the Ministry let you take on another Ambassadorship after the way the last one ended?"

"They do what _I_ want," Draco snapped. "Not the other way around."

"Beg pardon," Grey said sarcastically. "I just remember thinking you were fired from that position, or something…"

Draco turned around in his seat, so that he was face to face with the older man. "Would you cease with these ridiculous attempts at humbling me? I'm a grown man, and I neither need nor want to alter my current character!"

Grey dropped the calm tone that he had been using for their previous conversations. "Draco, you could be eighty-five and I'd still be trying to give you a reality check right now. I've never seen someone as obstinate, pig-headed, arrogant, and blind as you are being right now. You completely and repeatedly ignored the signs that your mother has been suffering from serious depression, even after being alerted by your faithful servants, and allowed her to continue to the point where she stopped eating entirely and induced a collapse. She could have had heart failure!" He stood up, seeming to be on the verge of grabbing Draco's shoulders and shaking them. "She could have died! She could have died, and it would have been your fault!" He cried.

Draco got up and walked out of the room, unspeakably enraged and utterly mortified. He couldn't believe that he had been so in the wrong as to deserve as chastisement from his oldest friend, and to have others have been witness to that conversation…

Out of the room, he wandered idly around the hospital, regaining his temper and analyzing what had just occurred. Begrudgingly, he admitted that he was partially in the wrong, and owed Grey some sort of apology. Probably, he should have been more receptive to the impertinent wisdom of the damn elves.

"But whatever," he muttered childishly, shoving his hands in his pockets and scuffing his heels against the linoleum floors. "She didn't die, and that's what matters, so I don't see what the big deal is about.

Finally, he turned around, starting to head back to the small waiting room. He was pretty sure he wasn't lost, but the corridors of the hospital were awfully windy. He couldn't remember if he'd turned at all, but he didn't think he had, so he started going straight and figured he'd get there in pretty good time.

And there he was, walking along, generally minding his own business (which was fairly unusual, for Draco,) when he saw a couple people who looked odd, or out of place, or somehow vaguely familiar.

The woman and man were both tall, and older, with plain, warm faces that were much too old for the child holding their hands to belong to them. The woman, especially, looked familiar, with long, curling grey hair. Shaking off the sensation, he turned his eyes to the little girl, walking in between the two. They were about ten feet away, walking towards him, when she looked up, and he stopped in his tracks.

Something was very, very, _very_ wrong.

He knew who that woman was. That meant the man had to be—and the kid—_"You did ruin my life," Hermione said, suddenly quiet. "Or at least, for a very long time, it felt like you had."_

"Mum!" The little girl cried suddenly, and ran up to someone behind him. Draco turned around.

Standing behind him in jeans and a t-shirt, with a large bruise on her forehead and her daughter—his daughter—_their_ daughter—in her arms, was Hermione Granger.

Aw, _shit_.


	10. Chapter 10

_A/N: I love this chapter, hope you love it too! Sorry for the wait. Hope you had a great holiday! HUUUUGE THANKS TO ALL MY REVIEWERS! I LIVE OFF YOU GUYS! _

&

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility**

&

He stared. She stared.

Finally, "Granger. Tell me this isn't happening."

Hermione stood up, placing Ophelia behind her so that her body acted as a shield. "Mom, Dad," she said calmly, looking at her parents. "Would you mind taking Ophelia for a walk? I'll meet you outside by the fountain."

"Momma?" Ophelia asked curiously, poking her head around Hermione's knees, and Draco sucked in a breath.

Hermione turned around, kneeling down. "Just have to talk to a friend from work, baby!" She cooed, coddling the little girl atrociously. "I'll see you outside soon after you have a nice walk with Grammy and Grampy, okay?"

"Otay, I like the fountain" she agreed, and Draco felt his heart do a funny little flip-flop at the way she mispronounced the 'k' as a 't.' This was quickly replaced with outrage as the girl and her grandparents disappeared down the hall, leaving him alone with Hermione.

"Do you mind not harassing me when I'm trying to have a moment with my family?" Hermione demanded sharply, breaking the silence. "I'm just out of the hospital—must I deal with you adding insult to injury?"

"Oh no," Draco said, advancing. "Don't you dare pretend you don't know exactly what this is about." Hermione visibly blanched. "You think I didn't notice? What, like no one else would ever realize that she's practically my copy?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Hermione denied weakly, but Draco knew he was winning.

"What the _fuck_ Granger?" He yelled. "What did you think you were doing? What did you think you were playing at? You think you can just have my daughter, have my child, and not let me know? Did you honestly think I'd never find out?"

Hermione's eyes narrowed. "It's not like you really cared, Malfoy!" She said shrilly, her voice steadily climbing octaves. "All you wanted was a one night stand! You wouldn't have given me a monthly stipend if I'd had quintuplets, for Merlin's sake, so let's be realistic here. And don't call her your child. You donated half the genes, that's all. She's my child, because she's the result of my love, dedication, hard work, and a couple other words you won't know the meaning of, Malfoy—commitment and honor."

"Don't you dare accuse me of being dishonorable! You, who lied for five years."

"Don't presume you know anything about me!" Hermione shrieked. "You know nothing! You didn't even know you had a child until you found out by accident!"

"Only because you were hiding her from me!"

"Only because you didn't care enough to try and find her!"

"Stop being such a simpering idiot, Granger, and explain to me why you decided to have a baby, which happened to be partially mine, and neglect to mention that minor detail to me!" Malfoy hollered. "What's her name?" He suddenly demanded, and when she was silent he asked again. "What is my _daughter's_ name!?"

"Ophelia!" Hermione finally snapped. "_My_ daughter's name is Ophelia."

Draco was so shocked that for a moment he literally couldn't speak. "Ophelia? OPHELIA? You named our daughter after the psychotic character in a Shakespearean tragedy, who ultimately commits suicide? Granger, I knew you were a maniac but…!" A bubble of hysterical laughter threatened to escape him.

Momentarily taken aback by his knowledge of muggle literature, Hermione could only respond with an abrupt "She is a child born of tragedy."

"So that's what they're calling it these days," Draco snorted, and Hermione marched up to him and slapped him smartly across the face. For the second time in a minute, Draco was so shocked he almost couldn't react. But he still managed. He snatched her wrist on the downswing, dragging her closer. "I wouldn't do that if I were you," he growled, his voice deep, low, and dangerous.

Hermione wrenched her wrist from his grasp and thrust herself away. "Stay away from me, Malfoy, and stay away from my daughter. We've managed for five years and we'll continue to manage. We're quite happy and would appreciate no interference."

Draco smirked. "As if."

"We've done extremely well, thank you very much," Hermione retorted smartly, doing an admirable job of holding on to her temper.

"And now I can do extremely well with her," Draco finished. "She's half Malfoy by blood, she shall be raised accordingly."

A nurse walking down the hallway glared at them and made a shushing sound. They stopped abruptly, realizing that they looked amazingly childish, standing five feet apart in the middle of a hospital hallway, with their hands on their hips, shouting at each other.

"You shall do no such thing," Hermione said, in a more normal tone of voice, though still poisonous.

"She's half mine," Draco countered, lowering his voice as well. "And I'm still waiting on the explanation as to why I've only just been enlightened as to her existence."

"Because," Hermione paused, glaring, "in case you hadn't realized yet, I loathe your presence."

"The feeling is mutual, Granger dearest," Draco sneered. "But that doesn't give you free license to go around popping out my babies."

"Well, it was all your fault," she hissed, drawing closer and literally poking him in the chest. "If _you_ hadn't gotten me drunk, seduced me, and forgotten contraception, then I wouldn't exactly have needed to, would I?"

He smirked. "Granger... you know you wanted me."

She smiled sweetly at him. "I'll remind you, Malfoy, that you are the one who stuck your penis inside of me, thus impregnating me."

His mouth opened, and then closed.

"For some reason," she continued, "I found it logical that because it had not been my choice to engage in sexual intercourse—it had been yours—that you would also be knowledgeable regarding the consequences of such things, and therefore relinquish all claims over any products of the union."

"I—"

Hermione turned smartly on her heel. "Conversation closed, Malfoy. You have no custody rights. You relinquished those when you took advantage of me and then left." She walked away.

Malfoy watched her walk down the hallway of the small private hospital, almost too stunned to admire how her butt looked in her jeans.

Almost.

(They were pretty tight jeans.)

&

"You know, Hermione," Harry was saying, as the previously named woman was glaring daggers at him. "He's really not all that bad."

"Beg pardon!?" Hermione cried, leaping off the sofa. "You're not serious, are you? He tried to steal Ophelia! Who is not even rightfully his! He's been nothing but an ass to me and he will only continue to be!"

"Well, we've been thrown together a bit, working in the Ministry, and he's," Harry paused, looking edgily at Hermione's bulging eyes, "well he's really been _nice_." He finished hurriedly.

"WHAT!?" Hermione shrieked, hair flying everywhere. Harry privately thought she looked vaguely like Medusa—her cheeks pink with rage, wild curls, furious face. "You're taking _his_ side!? Against _ME_?"

Harry stood up. "I really can't deal with your dramatic streak right now, Hermione," he said with more confidence than he felt, as her face turned purple. "I have to get back to Ginny and the kids. I wasn't taking anybody's side—"

"So now you're neutral in a battle between one of your oldest, best friends and your worst enemy?" Hermione interjected snarkily, but Harry ignored her.

"—I was just suggesting that you give him a real second chance. I know I haven't always taken my own advice, but a couple of us in the Ministry are starting to believe that there may be more to Malfoy than meets the eye."

With that, he left the apartment, leaving a stunned and enraged Hermione to sit on the sofa, alone, with his words pounding through her head. _Her dramatic streak? Malfoy not that bad? _We're all going to the dogs, Hermione thought wryly.

After a few minutes of silence, Hermione decided to call on Ron. He'd reassure her with his solid hatred of Malfoy, and maybe together they could talk some sense in to Harry. If she thought for a moment that she was being unreasonable in her persistent hatred, she ignored it. Grabbing her coat, she apparated to his doorstep.

"Ron?" She knocked, and there was a clatter from inside. It was evening, and the streetlight didn't give off much of a glow, but she pressed her nose to the glass anyways. "Ron?" She called again, knocking, and then tried the handle. The door was unlocked, so she stepped inside. "Hello?"

Ron's face appeared from the kitchen, but he looked strange. "Ohhermione," he said, but it sounded vaguely slurred.

"Ron, are you alright?" All of Hermione's anger with Harry evaporated, replaced by confusion and concern. He hadn't been able to make the dinner party Ginny had wanted to throw, so she really hadn't seen him in quite a while. What if he were ill?

"Yeah 'm fine," he replied, but there was definitely something wrong with his speech delivery. Hermione frowned, and marched over to him.

"Ron!" She cried, and staggered backward. For a moment, she thought she might faint.

Ron's kitchen was a disaster. Grubby, dirty, and small, it was littered with liquor bottles: open, closed, cans, glass, firewhisky, butter beer, muggle beer—to name a few. Interspersed with these were discarded clothes, packs of cigarettes, and rubbish from meals. Unwashed dishes piled out of the sink, and his cupboards were filled with more alcohol. It looked like a scene from the movies. Amidst it all, Ron sat, unshaven and grimy, in his bathrobe, holding a can of beer and a cigarette.

He was clearly extremely drunk, proven when he attempted to stand and greet her. "Herm—" he began, then stumbled and crashed in to a pile of cans, causing a huge clatter. Hermione lunged forward, gripping his arm.

"Ron," she said firmly, "we're leaving." Adjusting her grip, she apparated to the first and only place she could think of—Harry's house.

Ginny opened the door, and when she saw Ron, her jaw dropped. "Hermione—wha—?"

They stood there in silence together, until Ron lurched forward with a mumbled "Ginny," and awkwardly stroked her cheek. Ginny shoved his hand away roughly.

"Who _are_ you?" She whispered, her voice raw. "Ron, Ron, what have you done?" She looked at him for a long moment, then turned to Hermione, who was still standing on the doorstep. "I have kids," she said slowly. "They can't see him like this. Do you—d'you think, _this_, this has happened…" she gulped "..before?"

Hermione looked down, then up. "I saw his kitchen. I think it's been going on for a while."

They shared another long look, and knew that they were both remembering the hurried note Hermione had sent, seemingly so long ago.

"A while," Ginny repeated, and then opened the door further. "I suppose you'll have to come in." Noticing Hermione's hesitation, a shadow of smile graced her face. "Don't worry—Harry told me about your conversation. It'll be fine."

"I don't want to intrude…"

"Nonsense!" Ginny snapped, her empathy used up. "We need to decide what to do with him, and Merlin knows we have to do something! I'm certainly not going to tell mother, unless you're volunteering!"

Hermione blanched. "Inform Molly? Good lord, no." She scurried inside, pushing Ron as Ginny tugged his arms.

The three of them stumbled haphazardly in to the living room, where they layed Ron (sideways in the safety position, in case he booted, Hermione imperiously told Ginny) on the sofa. Hermione then sat in the kitchen, dazedly sipping a glass of water as Ginny rushed about, shooing the kids to their rooms and locating Harry.

He entered the kitchen before her, looking confused when he saw Hermione. "Hermione? Ginny said something about Ron—" Hermione pointed mutely at the connecting family room, and Harry gave her a short nod and entered.

"Ron?" His voice came clearly through the open door. "Ron, what the hell?"

"Harry, mate…"

There was a crash, as if Ron had tried to get off the sofa and then fallen over. Or had been pushed back down. "What the _fuck_, Ron!? What are you thinking, huh? How long has this been going on?" Harry's voice ricocheted off the walls, coming to Hermione in a garbled, jumbled fashion.

"I'm totally sober," Ron attempted to assert, but Harry was already striding from the room, his face like a thundercloud. "How long?" He demanded tersely of Hermione.

She shrugged, hair falling about her shoulders. "I don't know, but from the looks of his kitchen—too long."

Ginny came in to the kitchen. Her hair was dragged back from her face in a tight ponytail, accentuating her age-sharpened features. _We're all growing up_, Hermione thought, noticing the crow's feet beginning to form around Harry's eyes. _Life isn't so perfect and carefree anymore. _"Well," Ginny said, and again Hermione was forced to notice the absence of her traditional flippant tone. "what should we do?"

Harry pulled out a chair from the plain wooden table, collapsing into it and placing his face in his hands. Ginny climbed onto the counter, hugging her knees, and Hermione leaned against the wall, watching them. They heard another crash from the other room, and then a snore. Hermione sighed.

"Does he need some sort of rehabilitation?" It was Harry speaking, using a muggle term, and his question was directed to Hermione, who had seen the evidence.

She chewed her lip. "Speaking impartially as a medical professional, unquestionably. Speaking as a friend, yes, but knowing Ron…"

"You hate to sign away his life," Harry finished, and Ginny nodded. "But it's necessary." It wasn't a question.

Hermione nodded.

"Then the only question that remains is where," Ginny said. "And who pays."

"I—" Hermione and Harry began at the same time, but Ginny shook her head.

"_I_ will pay. I have money of my own, and it seems appropriate that I pay for my brother."

"Ginny," Hermione began, "I'm a single mother, I have an extremely lucrative job, and my wants are few. Please, let me—"

"No." Ginny staunchly replied. "This is how I want it to be done. You've already done more than enough, Hermione."

"Then you must heed my suggestion as to where you send him."

"Of course," Ginny sounded surprised. "I was just about to ask you."

Hermione hesitated. "Luna's practice is basically St. Mungos mental health wing…" She said slowly. "And I've heard very good things about her practice in general. I know she runs several rehab programs and even a separate post-rehab alcoholics recovery program…"

Harry laughed. "Oh, Luna. But, if anyone were going to counsel me, I think I'd enjoy having her the most. Except maybe Trelawney." Ginny managed a smile.

"If you both agree, I could take Ron over there right now," Hermione suggested.

"You've done quite enough for Ron already," Ginny told Hermione firmly. I'll take him over while Harry watches the kids. You need to go and relax and enjoy the vestiges of your Sunday.

Recognizing a dismissal when she heard one, Hermione smiled, and nodded, and left the Potters after extracting a promise from them to owl her at the slightest hint of news.

&

Needless to say, Draco Malfoy was more than marginally surprised when Hermione Granger marched up to his office in the Financial Wing of the Ministry of Magic and threw open the door.

His first thought was '_why didn't Erwin detain her!?'_ followed closely by '_she knows where I work! What else does she know?' _

The fact that she began with "I don't know what you did, Malfoy," was marginally reassuring.

He smirked. "Granger, what a pleasant surprise. How did you find my office?"

"I don't know what you think you're doing, Malfoy," she hissed again, pointing her finger at him in a mildly threatening manner. "But it won't work. You may have somehow convinced Harry that you're a changed person—you can convince the goddamn minister that you're Dumbledore reincarnated for all I bloody care—" Draco found this rather disconcerting, as he had attempted this very feat just yesterday, "but you'll never be able to hide from me. I know who you are. I know your true colors." He wasn't quite sure what his colors were, but he hoped they weren't something pansy, like baby blue.

He was seriously beginning to think that she would finish with a "and I also know where you sleep, and will not hesitate to kill you while you engage in the aforementioned activity," but instead she merely shouted "I WILL ALWAYS DESPISE YOU, YOU STINKING SACK OF SHIT," and left his office.

Draco acknowledged to himself that Hermione Granger was completely and utterly unbalanced. "I think you're completely and utterly unbalanced!" He shouted at her retreating back.

"And I think you're a lying, scheming scumbag," she retorted over her shoulder. "C'est la vie."

Draco was determined to have the last word. "Oh Granger," he called, "I have your dress from the other night. If you want it back, it'll cost you!"

She growled under her breath, and he (maturely) resisted the urge to growl back. "I hated that dress. That's why I wore it on a date with you."

"But it looked _so_ badly on you, I thought you'd be sure to wear it again."

"Grow up, Malfoy," she snorted.

"Touché," he drawled sarcastically. "This coming from the—_thing_—I hesitate to call you a woman—that just stormed in to my office like some mentally deranged maniac."

Hermione huffed at him, shot him a death glare, and left.

"Well." Malfoy said to the empty room. "What in the world was _that_ about?"

The lunatic woman had mentioned something about his attempts to subvert Potter. The only instance of communication between himself and Potter he could remember was The Coffee Pot Conversation, occurring two weeks prior. It had gone like this:

"Malfoy."

"Potter." Draco had then nodded, acknowledging the other man, as he waited for his turn to pour coffee in to his mug. To his surprise, Harry passed him the mug he had just poured. "Thanks," Draco had said stiffly, and then left.

In conclusion: Hermione Granger was unhinged, delusional, and psychotic. Generally speaking, she had lost her nuts, marbles, and rocker.

But then—he had already known that.

And in the interest of full disclosure and all, he had probably stolen the last two.

(The marbles and the rocker, that is. He wasn't that interested in her nuts.)

&


	11. Chapter 11

_A/N: HI!!! OMG, I'M ALIVE!!! And instead of studying for APs I'm working on this story! The plot, as they say, is beginning to congeal. Or thicken, whichever you prefer. I hope you enjoy this chapter, more to come soon. See if you can guess the direction we're heading in.... SORRY FOR THE WAIT!!! I LOVE YOU GUYS SO, SO, SO MUCH!! Thank you for all your awesome and kind reviews!! They inspire me and help me get started when I hit a dead end in the plot!_

_Also, on a side note, I've realized that fanfiction has been deleting my "chapter breaks." So in this chapter I've finally started to indicate the breaks using "8888888." Hope that hasn't been too confusing in the past. I'm going to start fixing it chapter by chapter. And without further ado!: _

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

She was lazing with Harry in her apartment, lying on the sofa with a large mug of tea, chatting idly. He had put on some jazz music, and her speakers played it softly in the background. Ophelia was at Harry's, supervised by Ginny and playing with their kids, and Hermione and Harry had taken the chance to talk.

Harry sat across the coffee table from her, on the floor, his head leaned back against the chair. "Have you heard how Ron's doing recently?" He asked.

"I haven't," Hermione confessed. "I need to ask Luna. I think that we can visit him soon, though, and hopefully we'll be able to see."

Harry shook his head sadly. "Yeah." They were both silent for a bit. "Hey," he said suddenly, lifting his head up. "I've been meaning to ask you for a while. You've been really distant lately—is everything okay with _you_?"

Hermione blushed, then paled. "I," she searched frantically for something that was not quite a lie.

"Can I help you with anything, anything at all?" Harry asked, and his sincerity made Hermione squirm.

"No, it's just—work—some people—you know," she stammered, trying to be as honest as possible.

"I could talk to Malfoy," Harry offered, and Hermione blanched.

"Who said anything about Malfoy?" She demanded, slightly sharply.

"Oh, I just thought maybe he was riding you hard about funding or something."

Hermione practically squeaked at his word choice. "I can handle Malfoy just fine on my own, thanks. I've managed so far." She ignored Harry's dubious look. "I'm going to go get some more tea—can I get you anything?"

She wasn't sure why she was avoiding the question. She was merely embarrassed about the fact that she'd stormed in to his office and childishly screamed insults at him, that was all.

Hermione came back in to the room. "He just—I don't even know, Harry, but I can't control myself when he gives me that horribly annoying smirk." Harry laughed, a deep guffaw, and Hermione eyed him tartly. "Glad you find my trials so amusing."

"No, I just—the way you phrased it was sort of odd, that's all."

"It's true!" Hermione insisted, her voice taking on the nasal quality of one who is fruitlessly trying to convince others.

"What, that he makes your, and I quote, 'blood boil passionately?'"

Hermione threw a pillow at him. "Harry Potter! I said no such thing! Stop joking about this, it's a serious issue."

"It's a serious issue!" Harry mimicked, but raised his hands, laughing, to ward off further pillows. "Joking, joking, keep your knickers on."

"You had better be," Hermione huffed.

"You've got to admit, though," Harry said after a pause. "He's not a bad looking bloke."

Hermione choked and made a fake retching noise. "I refuse to discuss this matter further," she said primly, getting up. "That is," she said slyly, looking over her shoulder at Harry, "unless you have something you'd like to tell me?"

It was Harry's turn to choke on his tea. "Gods, no—Me!?" He stopped for a minute, then exclaimed. "And—Malfoy!?"

Hermione couldn't stop laughing for the rest of the night.

But she also couldn't stop thinking of the frustrating mental picture that Harry's words had brought up. That of her, on a balcony, in a soft silky dress that hugged her perfectly, and a pair of deep, dark, unreadable grey eyes.

888888888

Malfoy was cooling his heels at home, trying not to worry about his mother. He had called up a few friends and specialists, and had found some sort of _program_ that was not directly connected to St. Mungos. Although it was allegedly based on some muggle method called "rehabilitation treatment" it sounded to him like the real deal. Narcissa would go away for a few weeks, maybe a month or two, he could visit her occasionally, and then when she came home she would be fixed.

Really, it was an excellent plan.

All he needed to do now was gain Grey's approval. Deciding thus, he hunkered down to the fireplace, grabbed a handful of floo powder, and stuck his head in, bellowing "Grey Manor!"

He appeared in the familiar vaulted marble room Grey called his "study." Lined with beautiful mahogany bookshelves full of leather-bound books, with huge windows, it was more palatial than cozy, but Grey liked the space.

"HERB!" Draco shouted, his disembodied voice ringing through the vast room.

"Coming, coming, coming," someone called, and soon a rumpled figure emerged from behind a bookshelf, precariously balancing a stack of tomes. "Ah, Draco. How are you holding up? Please, come in, come over, make yourself at home."

"Can't right now, I've got to get working on something. I just need your approval."

"What for?"

Draco passed through the parchment on which he had written most of the details. "Found a sort of recovery program for mother. It's headed by a girl I knew in school—bit mad, but the location's pretty remote and it seems like a fairly private program."

Grey nodded, absently running a hand through his hair, making it stand on end. "Hmm, get her out of the public eye, yes, ah, based on the muggle concept. I think this would work well. How often are you allowed to visit?"

"I think every few weeks," Draco replied. "Not too often, because they want the guests to be pretty independent."

"Well, you certainly have my approval. When is Narcissa safe to leave the hospital?"

Draco smiled at this. "They flooed me today. I was going to pick her up this afternoon."

"Fabulous!" Grey also grinned. "But don't you have work? Let me pick her up, I'd be happy to set her up at Thompson's."

"Are you sure you don't mind?"

"Not at all," Grey assured him, and the matter was decided.

"I'll visit her in a few weeks," Draco said, idly wondering why Grey was so eager to pick up his mother. Not to look a gift horse in the mouth or anything, but he'd always thought of Grey as his and his father's friend, rather than his mother.

He returned to his own study, and finished signing and filling out all the necessary paperwork. He attached the thick envelope—with billing instructions, the place was devilishly expensive, naturally—to his beautiful eagle owl, Iris.

"There's a girl," he cooed, uncharacteristically gentle, as he set her on the window sill. She cocked her head at him after a peek outside. The weather was bleak and grey, not a day he envied her to fly in. "C'mon, do it for mother." With a last reluctant glance (if owls could roll their eyes, he had no doubt he'd be in for it right now,) she departed, leaving him completely alone.

He idled about for a while, contemplated doing some work, dismissed that idea, made a mess for the house elves to clean up, and then decided to get out and do some shopping. He was running low on some potion ingredients.

"The fact that this is a normal time for people to do shopping has nothing to do with it," he carefully explained to the room at large. "I am absolutely not hoping to see anyone in Diagon Alley."

8888888888

She wasn't sure why she'd done it before. Obviously it had been because she was drunk, probably it'd had something to do with the fact that he had a flawless, masculine beauty, and possibly she had enjoyed his advances—his kisses and caresses, so soft and delicate.

But standing stock-still in an out of the way corner of Diagon Alley, holding Ophelia's hand with a white-knuckled grip, and watching the passerbys—one of whom happened to be Draco Malfoy—Hermione suddenly knew, with a little tingle of disgust or desire that ran down her spine and pooled in her stomach, that she would do it again.

He moved with the self-assurance of a dancer, flowing from one step to the next. His coordination was impeccable, his awareness flawless, and he wove effortlessly through the crowded street, never bumping or brushing and yet also somehow managing never to stop, or step aside. Perhaps it was the arrogant set of his shoulders, or the haughty way he would flick his eyes down, just so.

And then, just as Hermione Granger reached a shocking realization that very nearly sent her reeling, those startlingly gray eyes performed their trademark flick—and landed on the confused face containing a pair of eyes of (he rather privately thought) a matchless, depthless brown.

A sharp gasp—the breath hovered on her lips. He tipped his fedora, an acknowledgement. And then she narrowed her too-wide eyes, sent him a death glare to rival all death glares, and whipped around, pulling Ophelia along behind her. He paused, momentarily, observing her tactical retreat.

Then he smirked.

88888888888

Harry stood alone in the hallway. Hermione had been unable to come, Ginny had refused. So it was only him, Ron's oldest and best friend, who was willing to see what kind of progress Ron had made.

Luna came to greet him in person. Her hair—still long and blonde—was loose, forming a sort of soft halo around her. Her eyes and voice were as dreamy as ever, but something about her constancy in the world of uncertainty was oddly reassuring.

"Hello Harry," she said, smiling. "Are you ready to see him?"

Harry resisted the urge to gulp and sound nervous. "Yeah, yeah I am. How's he doing?"

"Very well. He was…unwilling…to really commit to the program at first, but he's really improved. He's started to socialize with some of the other patients during group therapy sessions, and he starts his one-on-one counseling tomorrow."

"Oh, um, that's great Luna, that's really really great," Harry sputtered awkwardly. "Who will, uh, who will his personal therapist be?"

She turned her large eyes upon him. "Me, of course. I try and take as many of the inmates as possible." They had reached a door. "This is his room." She knocked brusquely on the grey door, calling "Ron! You're guest is here!" in a tone that Harry had never heard Luna use before.

"Coming!" Someone called, and the door opened, revealing a small-ish room with a bed and desk, and a couple Chudley Cannons posters that had somehow made the move with Ron.

Harry drank in the sight of him—he looked better than he had in years. The dark bags under his eyes were gone, his hair was combed, and the furrow in his brow that Hermione had fretted would become permanent seemed to have erased itself overnight. Ron gave him a lopsided grin, and then they awkwardly embraced, slapping each other on the back so as to preserve their dignity.

"Good to see you, Ron," Harry said gruffly. "You look great."

"Thanks for coming man," Ron replied, and everything was alright between them.

"I'll see you in an hour or two, Harry," Luna bid them goodbye, wandering off down the corridor.

Ron jerked his head toward her and smiled. "Still every bit as crazy as she ever was," he said fondly.

Harry grinned. "Some things never change."

"Yeah," Ron said absently, ushering him inside. He patted the bed, pulling out the desk chair. "Here, have a seat. Hey—you'll never guess who else is here!"

Harry inclined his head curiously. "Yeah?"

"_Narcissa Malfoy_! Apparently she had some big collapse or something. I've had a few group sessions with her, she's pretty quiet."

"Whew," Harry whistled. "I had no idea Malfoy was having problems at home…"

"What, are you guys all chummy now?"

"Shut up." Harry gave Ron a good-natured shove. "Enough about the git, anyway. How're you doing?"

"I'm doing well," Ron said hesitantly. "Some of the people here are pretty nuts, and some of them are just kind of normal, cool people. There's one guy, Luke, he's nice. Luna's nice, Narcissa's not horrible… I'm surviving."

"Good to hear. Hermione and Ginny're worried sick about you."

"Obviously not that worried. Couldn't be bothered to come, could they?"

"You know that's not true."

Their eyes met, and it was Ron who looked away first. He let out a breath. "I know… It's just tough being locked away in here. Makes you wonder who your real friends are… You know?"

Harry clapped him on the shoulder. "You're a decent guy, Ron," he said. "We're all behind you, no matter what, and you should understand that."

Ron smirked, a spark of his old humor lighting up his eyes, turning them from grey to clear, azure blue. "Only decent?" He quipped.

88888888888

Harry was walking down the hallway he entered, feeling like a large weight had been lifted off his chest, when it was abruptly replaced.

"Potter!" Someone called behind him, and he whirled around to find a surprised looking Draco Malfoy standing a few feet behind him.

"Malfoy," he responded neutrally. "What brings you here?"

"As Weasley has no doubt told you, my mother is also a patient here." Malfoy took a few steps forward. His voice had been cool, but held none of the usual malice, so Harry did not step back. "Look, Potter, you're actually just the person I wanted to see."

Harry blinked. "I am?"

"You see," Malfoy took another step forward, and lowered his voice slightly. He was looking at Harry intently, as if trying to judge what his reaction would be. "I need to ask you a favor."

"I'm not sure I'll be able to help you. And I'm not sure if I want to," Harry said honestly.

"And I don't blame you for that. It's just—well, this is about Hermione."

Harry stiffened, and Malfoy's face hardened ever so slightly. "What about Hermione?"

"She won't speak to me."

"You're not exactly her favorite person right now. If you ever were."

Malfoy barked a laugh. "That's the understatement of the year."

"What I don't understand," Harry began, and then corrected himself. "One of the many things regarding this situation that I am currently confused about," he said, "is why you're approaching me about it. I don't have any reason to like you any more than she does."

"I was hoping that you'd be a little more rational than her, and listen to what I have to say."

There was a long moment of silence, during which Harry eyed Malfoy seriously. Abruptly, he seemed to realize that they were standing in the corridor of a mental hospital. "Alright," he said shortly, and began to walk. "Where are you headed?"

"Not important, I'll walk with you," Malfoy said, matching his long-legged strides to Harry's. They exited the ward together, and when they were on the street, Harry looked at Malfoy.

"Talk."

"I don't want to take the baby." Harry stopped abruptly, turning to look Malfoy directly in the face.

"Good," he said finally. "That child is the most important thing in the world to her."

"I realize that. I…insinuated some things that I shouldn't have… She… makes me very…irrational."

Harry snorted. "Irrational doesn't even begin to cover the way you've behaved toward her."

"I realize that. And… I want to make it up to her."

"Look, Malfoy," Harry said harshly. "I don't know what game you're playing, but it's time you left Hermione out of it. Don't you think you've made her miserable enough?"

"Just—"

"No, I know what you want. You're here to ask me to be your advocate, to tell Hermione to give you a chance. Why? Why should I? You have been nothing but awful to her, to me, to Ron. You were miserable in school and not a hell of a lot better afterwards. I'm not the type to hold grudges for schoolboy games but you've never done anything to attempt to redeem yourself."

"You're right. I know. Yet here I am, asking for a chance." He paused, and then looked at Harry. "I know we're not friends. But I'm asking you as a friend might. Please."

"Why?"

"I don't—just. Please."

Harry had never seen the other man look so desperate and wild. He was still Malfoy, his hair was still impeccable, his clothes aligned and probably more expensive than Harry could even guess. But there was something about his eyes. Harry suddenly smiled. "Can't say it, can you?"

"What?"

"Nevermind." He shook his head abruptly, as if to clear it. "Listen up, Malfoy, and listen good. You've taken advantage of Hermione, twice, and forced her to do things against her will. I'll talk to her for you, because I'm somehow convinced that you're a halfway decent guy, and there's more to the relationship between you two than either of you is letting on. But if there's a third time—Merlin forbid I see your face again."

Malfoy smiled then, a huge grin that reached his eyes. "You won't regret this, Potter, you won't."

Harry shook his head again, nodded to Malfoy, and dissapparated.


	12. Chapter 12

_A/N: Due to the amazing feedback from my intensely loved reviewers, and to the fact that Senior Spring (ah, the stuff legends are made of) affords me the leisure of free time (and AP Chemistry exams are, at long last, a thing of the distant past,) chapters will be flowing from my eager fingers once more! _

_We're almost at 200 reviews! You guys rock! Huge thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter and to TwinsConspiracy, who reviewed them all! I think I will try to reply personally to all your reviews this weekend, if you wouldn't be creeped out. And without further blabbering, (I HATE CHEMISTRY, I LOVE DRACO!). _

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

Harry apparated to his front door, and burst in to the house, calling frantically for Ginny.

"GIN! GIN? YOU'LL NEVER GUESS WHAT!"

Ginny came flying down the stairs, covered in ink and parchment, hair wild and clothes messy, looking as if he'd just woken her from a work-induced slumber. Which, to be honest, was probably the case. Ginny had a tendency to doze off when she became bored, and the legalities of being an auror were sometimes incredibly dull.

"What?" She cried, rushing to him. "Harry! Is Ron alright?"

Harry frowned, momentarily sidetracked. "Oh, no, Ron's doing great. You should go see him. Actually—"

"Are you sure?" Ginny cut in. "Does he look depressed? Are they feeding him enough?"

"Why didn't you just go see him yourself?"

Ginny backed up, rolling her eyes at him, and muttering something that sounded like "_men_," under her breath.

"Well, that wasn't what I wanted to tell you," Harry amended. "Actually, Draco Malfoy started talking to me."

"Wait, why was he even around you to begin with?"

"Oh, his mum's in treatment there. So anyways, he came up to me and you'll never guess what he asked me to do."

"What I want to know," Ginny said, eyeing him disparagingly, "is why you spoke to him at all. Weren't you there to see Ron? And instead you're suddenly chums with Malfoy, of all people?"

"Don't be ridiculous!" Harry cried. "_He_ approached _me_, and wouldn't leave me alone until I agreed to intercede with Hermione on his behalf."

"You agreed to _WHAT_?" Ginny yelped, eyes bulging. "Harry Potter, tell me you did no such thing!"

Harry's frown deepened. "Stop attacking me," he said grumpily. "You weren't there. He was very persuasive."

"You know how much she hates him, Harry! You're meant to be her best friend—you're supposed to protect her from gits like him. How could you even entertain such a notion?"

"I think he really likes her," Harry protested. "There's something unresolved between the two of them. You know there is, Gin, you've realized it, too. I don't know. Malfoy's not such an awful guy anymore." Seeing his wife's baleful glare, he quickly amended that statement. "Not that he's suddenly my best mate or anything, but he's not Mr. Death Eater."

"This is unbelievable." Ginny said. "Hermione will be distraught if you start trying to convince her to date Malfoy."

"Look, it's not going to be like that—" Harry began to say, but Ginny cut him off again.

"_And_," she snapped, "for you to bring home this news instead of news of my brother is incredibly selfish of you! I don't understand how you could let someone like Draco Malfoy, who, let me remind you, _ruined_ your best friend's life, dominate over Ron! It's so thoughtless!"

She took a breath, and Harry broke in. "First of all, that's not fair. You know Ron will always be my primary concern. And second, I know he took advantage of her," he shouted, getting angry, "but c'mon, let's be honest, how stupid can she get? What the hell did Hermione think was going to happen if she accepted his drinks and got pissed out of her mind? He's an infamous womanizer!"

Ginny slapped him across the face. "And you call yourself her best friend! You have no idea what that woman has been through!"

"I have a better idea than you do! Since when did you become her staunch defender?"

"Since you relinquished that position in favor of Malfoy!" Ginny yelled, and turned to run up the stairs. "I won't the mistake of relying on you to watch my back! Because clearly you auction off your loyalties to the most persuasive bidder!"

"And I won't make the mistake of trying to have a rational conversation with you!" Harry called, but her door had already slammed. "Unbelievable," he sighed, running a hand through his hair and sighing heavily. "My first big fight with Gin, and it's about Draco Malfoy. Un-_fucking_-believable. Ten years after school ends and he still manages to ruin my day."

88888888888

Hermione sat beside Ophelia on the bed, running her fingers through the young girl's curls as she hummed a nonsense tune. "Shhh, shhh," she cooed, pulling up the covers. "Sleep tight, my angel, baby girl."

Ophelia yawned, eyes fluttering, and settled back against the pillows. "'Night," she sighed. "Tomorrow I want to see Nuncle Ron."

"Shh, soon, we'll see him soon," Hermione assured her, smoothing the hair from her forehead to plant a soft kiss. "You just sleep tight."

"And don't let the bedbugs bite," Ophelia murmured sleepily, sinking bonelessly in to the bed. Hermione smiled, enjoying the sight of her deep, regular breathing.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite," she whispered. Easing herself off the bed, she turned out the light and tiptoed out of the room, making sure to leave the door open a crack.

She paused in the living room, feeling an uncharacteristic urge to watch some television. She sat on the couch, fully intending to turn on the boob tube and watch mindlessly for an hour or so, but (of course) started thinking instead.

Draco Malfoy, altogether omnipresent in her mind these days, was once again the subject of her reverie. Only this time, in the privacy of her own mind, with no one around and no one coming, it was a slightly different type of musing. Feeling almost guilty, like a thief stealing glances of his face, Hermione allowed herself to reconstruct it in her mind. The fair hair, roiling eyes, high cheekbones, sharp lips, fedora—a faint blush heated the skin under her eyes.

She lay back against the sofa, running her hands through her hair. "I can't believe this," she muttered to the empty room. "I'm a grown woman and I'm acting like a child."

With a conscious effort, she pulled her mind away from the dangerous foggy memory fragments it was beginning to lean toward. She reminded herself of all the horrible things he'd said, the terrible way he'd blackmailed her in to dating him, how he'd _raped_ her, or at least taken advantage of her, and planned the whole thing.

"Besides," she assured herself. "He's also a total ass, with no conversation skills, and no fun to talk to. We have nothing in common."

The annoying, traitorous voice in the back of her head that was persistently pushing the image of Draco Malfoy, shirtless, to the forefront of her mind, whispered "It's not like you really want to _talk_ to him."

Hermione threw herself off the couch and flicked on the T.V., flipping idly through the channels until she settled on the tail-end of an unsatisfying show. She went to bed, simultaneously grumpy and curious.

The next day was Monday. Hermione woke up before her alarm clock after tossing for the majority of the night, and immediately headed for the coffee maker. Normally, she remembered to fill it and set the timer the night before, so that the coffee was freshly dripping by the time she entered the kitchen. In the emotional turmoil of last night she had forgotten, so while she waited for Ophelia to wake up she emptied the rinds and started a fresh pot brewing.

The heady, sharp scent of the coffee percolating the small, clean apartment seemed to banish the insubstantial fears of the night, leaving her refreshed and ready to attack another day at the office.

"Ophelia!" She called, walking to the girl's bedroom. "Ophelia, time to get up!" She poked her head in the door. The little girl was still fast asleep, and Hermione felt a twinge of guilt. She really hadn't been making sure Ophelia was in bed early enough. "Rise and shine, sleeping beauty!"

Ophelia groaned, more like a teenager than a five year old. "Already?" She sighed, dragging a rumpled head off the pillow.

"You have school and then daycare," Hermione cooed, gathering the tousled child in to her arms. "Go brush your teeth and get dressed, I'll make you some eggs."

Ophelia jutted out her chin. "I hate eggs. I don't wanna go to school. I hate reading."

Hermione sighed. "You would like it more if you practiced occasionally instead of playing with your blocks so much."

"The other kids're stupid."

"Don't say that Ophelia, that's not nice."

"They're not nice to me," Ophelia said, and then began to cry. "I hate school. I don't have any friends. No one ever has me over to their house. I wanna go to Gwamma's," she wailed, beginning to mispronounce letters as she got more upset.

"Oh, honey, here, come here, come give Momma a hug. Shh, don't cry baby, it's all okay." She rocked Ophelia in her arms for a couple minutes, whispering nonsense words of consolation. "If you want to have some friends over, tell you what, this weekend you can ask a few girls or boys to come play. And we can visit the Weasleys, and I'll help you practice your reading."

Ophelia sniffled, her face still buried in Hermione's sweater. Hermione picked her up, whisking her to the kitchen.

"Here, you just sit tight. You'll feel better after some breakfast. You're just tired, sweetie, we haven't been going to bed on time."

Ophelia frowned, but grudgingly acquiesced. Hermione managed to persuade her to pick at the eggs, and eventually coaxed Ophelia in to her school pinafore. The walk to her primary school wasn't too long, but they were running late, so Hermione grabbed Ophelia's hand and they made a run—which was admittedly more of a jog—for it.

By the time Ophelia was convinced that school wasn't truly that awful, and she should really let go of Hermione's hand, Hermione was nearly late to work, and barely had time to dash in to an alley and quickly apparate to St. Mungos.

She hustled rather frantically in to her office, plastered with papers, owls, and memos after the weekend, still managing to smile at Ida on the way in.

"Hi Healer Granger!"

She had just sat down to attack some leftover paperwork from her surgery on Friday when Ida burst in the door, followed closely by Sarah Wallace. "Healer Granger!" someone was saying, and Hermione practically jumped out of her seat.

"What on earth is the matter?"

"Hermione," Sarah cried, "didn't you get any of my owls this weekend?"

"I—no, I've—" Hermione looked at her blankly, surprised. "I deliberately took this weekend off—family—_what is going on_?" She practically shouted, as Sarah began to cry weakly.

"The blood—in the transfusions—virus—all the surgery—patients—"

Hermione looked at Ida. "Do you know what she's talking about?" She asked calmly, deliberately ignoring the roaring fear pounding in her temples.

"You had lunch with Healer Wallace about a month ago to discuss a muggle technique of blood transfusions," Ida began.

"Yes, yes, I remember," Hermione said, and was interrupted by Sarah.

"It didn't work! Well, that is, it worked, but the blood donations we got were faulty! No one thought to screen them for muggle diseases, and now all the patients have all sorts of horrible muggle afflictions, and none of our usual medications are working!"

Hermione grabbed her lab coat, pinning up her hair as she walked brusquely to the door. "Follow me," she snapped to the two women. "Ida, I want the detailed records on the attending Healers to all patients who received a blood transfusion using the pioneered technique. Sarah," she paused for breath as Ida ran off, heels clicking. "Hand me my clipboard. Now, while Ida gets those records, I want a description of some of the maladies we've encountered."

They kept walking, towards the Intensive Care Unit, and Hermione paused at reception. The redheaded nurse there was filing papers, but at the look on Hermione's face she dropped the folder.

"I want Healer Ford, and the director, _now_," she snarled at the woman, who grabbed a memo sheet and began frantically writing.

Sarah began to babble, listing various symptoms and patients. She seemed to have momentarily recovered from her panic. "—won't seem to get better, it's only a sniffle but we're worried it's going to turn in to bronchitis, and then the other girl's liver is failing—"

Hermione nodded, recognizing a few muggle diseases right off. "Right," she said finally. "Here's what I'm thinking. Obviously, we have ways to treat most of these—like syphilis, the one that's giving brain trouble, yes, we have medicine for that—I think we need to contact a muggle drug provider. I could do that. You need to get Healer Ford and start discussing future research projects, and I'll also work on getting you the muggle technique of blood screening. Once the director gets here, we'll put a halt to any further blood transfusions using the contaminated blood."

"Already done," Ida said, reappearing and handing Hermione a sheaf of files. "Here's what I could find on short notice. I'll work on getting the more complete set, but I thought you could start with these."

Hermione smiled at the blonde witch gratefully. "Ida, you're a lifesaver. What would I do without you?"

"This is just what happens when you take time off, Healer Granger," Ida teased. Hermione laughed, then opened the files.

"Hermione?" Jim Ford had arrived.

"Ah, Jim," Hermione sighed. "Sarah, tell Jim what you just told me. I'm going to start looking over these and contact a few people I know in the muggle drug business."

Sarah nodded, drawing Jim away. Hermione surveyed the scene, then promptly turned on her heel, and headed to her office with the files. On the way in, she barked "telephone!" at Ida, who nodded and fetched the strange device from under her desk and brought it in to Hermione's inner office.

Hermione, already engrossed in the first file and frantically taking notes on another piece of parchment, barely spared her a glance as she set up the telephone within her reach and quietly exited. Hermione had ordered it specially for an emergency like today, when she might need to contact her friends in the muggle world.

Hours of phone calls, pages of notes, a missed lunch and three emergency meetings later, Hermione felt herself being shaken awake.

"Healer Granger," Ida said, and Hermione groggily hauled herself off the desk, peeling a drool-encrusted paper off her cheek.

"What time is it?" She muttered hazily, hands fumbling for her coffee mug.

Ida placed a steaming mug in her hands. "Um, it's almost eight," she said apologetically. "I'm sorry I didn't see you before."

Hermione stood up so quickly she almost spilled the coffee. "Goddamnit," she swore. "This day has just been one huge rush! Ida, has anything else come for me while I…wasn't present?"

"A few more memos, no telephone calls…the director left a note and the complete set of files on the patients, and confirmed my cancellation of all scheduled transfusions."

"Alright," Hermione nodded. "I'll take a few of those home with me." She grabbed a handful of the new files and stuffed them in her bag, rushing out the door so quickly that she forgot to change her shoes.

"Healer Granger!" Ida called. "Your shoes!"

"Forget them, I've got a daughter to pick up!" Hermione replied, but then couldn't resist spinning around. "Ida—the patient we think might have received the HIV virus from the contaminated blood—how is he?"

Ida shook her head. "He's got pneumonia. The healers didn't watch him carefully enough, they weren't worried; initially it was just a cold."

Hermione swore under her breath. "That's tomorrow then. I think I can get him on a drug cocktail, hopefully that'll hold him until we research this more extensively. Try and get him isolated and let's see if some regular old Pepper-Up potion will help with it until then."

Ida nodded, scribbling something on the pad. "Gotcha. Don't work too hard tonight!"

Hermione barked a half hysterical, half ironic laugh at that, and promptly disapparated.

8888888888

Draco was relaxing on a leather sofa in his personal library, flipping through a tome of variations on the jelly-legs jinx. He was digesting the information that jelly-legs originated in Rome, when Caesar (a phenomenal wizard, naturally) decided to neutralize opposing armies by cursing their legs to quiver uncontrollably. Other generals and men had taken it as mere fear and cowardice, and so it was an effect, and deadly, way of winning a battle. He was smiling and nodding, agreeing, when Grey burst through his fireplace.

"Good god, man!" Draco cried, recoiling in shock. "Next time, ask first."

"I take it you haven't heard yet, then?" Grey said. "Do you even speak to any of your old Slytherin friends anymore?"

Draco looked at him oddly. "I mean, I see Pansy occasionally…and Blaise and I meet biweekly."

"Who says that anymore, Draco, seriously? Biweekly? You meet twice a week, you mean."

"No, actually, biweekly is twice a month. As in, a fortnight."

Grey shook his head. "Sometimes I think you're the most presumptuous bastard on the face of this earth."

"I take offence to that."

"But then I remember your father."

Draco stood. "Look, if you've just come here to insult me and my father, this conversation can finish right now. I have reading to get back to."

Grey eyed his text disparagingly. "The Origins of the Jelly-Legs Jinx in Roman Warfare?"

"It's fascinating. Not that you'd know, as you apparently lost all desire to better your mind long ago."

"I came here in an attempt to better yours."

"By 'taking me down a peg?'" Draco snorted.

"No—I got sidetracked. When was the last time you saw Blaise?"

"Blaise Zabini?"

"Yes, Blaise Zabini, what other fucking Blaise do you know!"

"I—"

"Draco," Grey snapped, "Cease being a prat for just a minute and _listen_ to what I am trying to tell you! Your friend, if you can call your biweekly tea partner that—"

"We meet for lunch," Draco interrupted. Grey ignored him.

"—Was recently hospitalized for a terrible splinch, lots of blood loss, and they tried out a new experimental technique on him and gave him some dreadful muggle disease. He's extremely ill, and one of my contacts in St. Mungos isn't sure if he's going to make it through the night."

"What!" Draco practically flew from the room. "Hinky!" He bellowed. "My coat, and a box of sweets for Zabini!" He rushed back in to the library, dragging Grey with him in to the foyer. "Merlin, man, what took you so long to tell me?"

"If you hadn't kept _interrupt_—"

"Nevermind, less talking more moving! HINKY! MY COAT!"

The house-elf rushed in to the room, carrying Draco's black trench-coat, and a plate of cookies that spelled "FEL BETER." Draco looked at them like he was about to start roaring again, then shook his head and latched on to Grey's arm.

"Side-along?" He asked, but didn't wait for a response. The familiar tube sensation enveloped them both, and they reappeared in the apparition alley beside St. Mungos.

"Now that we're here," Draco said, as they entered through the traditional glass door, "you can tell me exactly who is responsible for this idiotic idea of 'pioneering' a new treatment on him. Did he have to sign some kind of release form?"

"I'm not clear on the details. I doubt he signed anything; from what I gleaned he wasn't conscious. I'm sure there was a reason, Draco," he cautioned. "It would have actually been very successful, but the blood they used was contaminated."

Draco huffed, showing what he thought about people who used contaminated blood. "When I see Zabini," he growled, "I'm going to wring his neck for being such a goddamn idiot. I know what this is about. What the hell kind of wizard splinches themselves? And so poorly that there's actual blood loss?"

They had reached the waiting room, which was fairly deserted. Unsurprisingly, considering it was past nine at night. Draco smiled at the red-haired witch behind the desk.

"Blaise Zabini?"

"Second floor, room 247. I'll let an apprentice know he's got visitors," she replied, smiling at Draco. He was about to smile back when Grey slapped him along the back of his head.

"Ow—what the—?"

"Your _friend_ is _dying_," Grey hissed as they walked to the stairs. "Try and act with a little more propriety."

"Surely you're being a little overdramatic," Draco said, looking at him optimistically. "They'll figure something out."

Grey shook his head. "Let's just see the kid, then we can make judgements. I wish there were a Healer around here somewhere that I could talk to. It's been awhile since I practiced but I could still provide an expert opinion…" He trailed off, slightly out of breath, as they reached the second floor.

Draco leaned over and chucked him the stomach. "Getting a bit of a gut, aren't we?" He teased. "Got to keep in shape."

"Try to be serious about this, Draco."

They walked along the corridor, and the promised apprentice Healer materialized from a room farther down.

"Visitors for room 247?" She called, and they nodded. "This way!"

They followed her gesture, finally reaching a door with a small window, showing a bed and a couple strange looking machines.

"Why isn't he in a ward?" Draco wondered aloud, and abruptly corrected himself. "Ah, the experimental treatment."

"Actually," the apprentice said softly, "he's also in solitary confinement because his condition is so serious. Technically, Healer Granger ordered he should be in isolation, but we're allowing close friends and family to visit because he seems relatively lucid, and we're just not sure right now if he's going to pull through."

Draco's ears had perked up at the mention of Hermione, but the end of the sentence deflated him, and he let out a breath. "So it's really that serious?"

She nodded solemnly, neat bun bobbing. "I'm afraid so."

He hesitated, hand on the door. "Go on in," Grey urged. "We'll wait outside."

"Blaise?" Draco asked softly, slipping inside. His friend lay on the bed, looking pale and wan. His face was thinner than Draco remembered it, and he had some sort of tube down his nose. Steam was wafting continuously out of his ears, and when he coughed Draco shuddered. It was an ugly, hacking sound. The room reeked of illness. "Zabini, what is this?"

Blaise tried to laugh, but all that came out was a wheezy cough. "Malfoy, what the fuck are you doing here?"

"Zabini, how the fuck'd you get yourself in a mess like this?"

"Your tenderness touches me. I always knew you were a softie, Malfoy."

Draco moved closer to the bed, putting the cookies on the bedside table. "Blaise, this looks bad."

"Don't _Blaise_ me, Draco," the other man snapped. "Take your pansy-ass cookies home, I'm not going to die anytime soon." He stopped to cough. "Granger'll find a cure."

"Granger!" Malfoy exploded, drawing a breath. "Granger's the one responsible for this whole bloody mess!"

"No, s'not her fault," Blaise mumbled. "The other damn healer—Walters, Wally, right idiot. Didn't clean the blood. Granger's smart."

Malfoy scowled. "How the hell did you splinch yourself so badly in the first place?" He demanded, changing the subject.

"That's a good story…" Blaise began, and abruptly eyed Draco tiredly. "Look. I know you came to like say goodbye or some shit. Get it over with and leave me alone."

Draco smiled at his friend's characteristic crudeness, knowing that he hated appearing so helpless in front of another. "Good to know you're doing okay," he said, touching Blaise briefly on the shoulder. "I'll talk to the receptionist, make sure she assigns you some hot nurses."

Blaise cackled. "The redheaded receptionist? I like her. Tell her to come visit me." Draco shook his head.

"You're hopeless. See you in a few weeks when you're recovered." Opening the door, he turned. "Oh—and Zabini? Try not to jump off any more buildings in the near future. Trust me, winning a bet is just not worth it."

"Fucker," Blaise laughed as the door slammed shut. "He knew all along."

Grey was waiting in the hall. The healer had left them to find their own way out. "How is he?"

"He's okay. He's afraid, but I think he's going to make it. Zabinis are a hard lot to kill."

"Speaking from personal experience?" Grey wanted to know.

"Well…there were those few attempts in school…" Draco joked, and then smiled. "I have faith in his tenacity. Oh! That reminds me. I have to ask around. Do you know a Healer Walters, or Wally or something? Blaise wasn't clear, but he seemed to think this whole business was their fault."

"I'll look in to it," Grey assured him as they walked down the stairs. "The medical world is a close-knit one."

"Alright, sounds good. In the meantime, I will hopefully have the opportunity to speak with Granger soon, so I can ensure she's giving Blaise the proper care."

Grey nodded. "Granger, eh?"

Draco ignored his tone. "Technically speaking, I'm her boss."

"Technically speaking, she's not speaking to you," the other man reminded him.

"It doesn't matter," Draco said from between clenched teeth. "How do you even know that, anyways?"

Grey tapped his nose. "I have my ways."

"Are you reading my mail?"

"Why, sending her your lovesick poetry?"

"I don't write lovesick poetry," Draco archly replied.

"Oh, that's right, all of your poetry is of the strictly sappy variety."

"Sappy and lovesick mean practically the same thing. For your information, I don't do anything so girly as writing poetry."

They had reached the street. "You just read really masculine books on the origins of jinxes," Grey rejoined.

"It might do you some good to try it, instead of harassing people like myself, in the innocent endeavor to improve and expand my already scintillating conversational repertoire."

"And with that, we should both be going. It's nearly eleven, and I know you, at least, have work tomorrow."

"No more jelly-legs tonight," Draco said wistfully, and disapparated.


	13. Chapter 13

_A/N: Hope you like it! GINORMOUS THANKS and LOVE to my reviewers! LOVE YOU ALL! Also--I swear, it's really happening! I will update every Wednesday (at least) and possibly much more often! _

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility**

"Hullo?" Hermione opened her door, expecting the muggle pizza delivery man, and instead admitted a tired Harry Potter. Admittedly, she was rather tired-looking herself. "Harry! What a surprise!"

He grinned. "I figured it's been a while since we've hung out, so I thought I'd drop by."

"Well, I have some pizza on the way…you're welcome to join."

"Thanks," Harry said, removing his shoes in the small entryway that served as a mudroom. "I haven't had pizza in ages! One muggle food the wizards never quite picked up."

"I figured I should let Ophelia experience some of the finer aspects of muggle life before she's shipped off to boarding school," Hermione laughed. "And it's nice not to have to cook sometimes."

"Busy week?"

"Busy doesn't even begin to describe it. Thank Merlin I have this weekend off again. I'm technically 'on call,' but it's just not nearly as stressful as being there."

"Still love being a healer?"

Hermione smiled wearily. "You know I wouldn't change my life for anything."

"What about any_one_?" Harry probed, and Hermione gave him a strange look.

At that moment, the doorbell chimed again. "Go grab a seat in the kitchen," she said, shoving him in that direction. "Ophelia! Wash your hands, the pizza's here!"

Harry tripped in to the kitchen, where he found Ophelia busily soaping herself up to her shoulders in the enormous kitchen sink. "I'm going to be really clean," she informed him proudly. "I'm washing like Mary and Laura washed."

"Um-hm," Harry agreed, subtly helping to wipe off some of the suds before Hermione came in and freaked out. "That's great."

"Mary and Laura live in a little house on the prairie. They only take baths once a week."

"Yeah?" Harry had moved on to the counter. Ophelia was looking fairly clean.

"Yup, but they don't have any magic."

He scooped Ophelia up, and she shrieked with laughter. "No magic, huh?" He asked casually, tickling her.

"Ophelia? Have you washed your hands?" Hermione came in to the kitchen, carrying a box of pizza and a salad. "Oh, honestly," she tutted. "Harry, be sure to wash your hands as well. Ophelia, come here, I want to see clean fingernails."

Harry snorted. "Clean fingernails? Don't you think that's a bit much?"

"Inspect your child's fingernails," Hermione replied tartly. "I guarantee you they're disgusting."

Harry shook his head and went to clean his hands.

"Remember, no elbows on the table," Hermione was telling Ophelia when he re-entered.

He plopped down in his chair, and they helped themselves to the muggle delicacy. Over dinner, Hermione and Harry took turns peppering Ophelia with questions about school and daycare, interspersed with occasional queries on manners or facts. (These came solely from Hermione.)

"So, who's your best friend?" Harry would ask.

"What's the closest planet to the sun?" That was Hermione.

Ophelia took it all in stride, but after she had picked at enough of the salad to satisfy Hermione she was ready to go. "Can I please be excused?"

"You _may__,_," Hermione corrected her.

The little girl huffed grumpily. "_May_ I please be excused?"

Hermione beamed at her. "Of course. I'll come make sure you're ready for bed in an hour." Ophelia smiled, tiredness momentarily forgotten, and skipped off. Hermione stood and stretched, joints creaking. "Can I get you a cup of anything?" She asked Harry.

"Actually, coffee would be amazing."

"One coffee, coming up, and a tea for me," Hermione said, gathering a few plates and heading to the kitchen.

Harry stood, snatching them from her. "You did dinner, I'll do dishes."

"Oh, honestly, Harry, dinner was pizza!" Hermione protested, but Harry was adamant.

"I'm no heartless mooch. Be off with you!"

"Well, I'll just have to make you an extra nice coffee then. I'm assuming you still take it with cream and a sugar?"

Harry patted his stomach. "Skip the sugar. I've been trying to cut down on it."

Hermione laughed. "But the pizza's okay?"

"Hey, it was a special occasion!"

"Oh, right, of course, my mistake. Well, here's your coffee, let's go sit in the living room."

They made their way to the cozy living room, settling in Hermione's over-stuffed sofa, modeled on the armchairs of the old Gryffindor common room.

"I love this sofa," Harry murmured, settling back. "Best decision ever when you were furnishing this place."

"So," Hermione said, crossing her legs and placing her mug in between them, "what is it that you want to tell me?"

Harry blinked. "Who says I want to tell you anything?" He asked blandly.

"Don't play coy with me, you've been acting like a goose sitting on an egg all night."

Harry snickered at the imagery, and took a long sip from his coffee. "Look, don't go crazy, alright," he began. Hermione frowned at him. "No, I know, it's not—never mind. There's really no way to say this but to say it straight up. I think you should give Draco Malfoy a chance."

"_What_?" Hermione cried, sitting bolt upright so quickly that she splashed tea everywhere. She hastily transferred the mug to the coffee table, then whipped around to face Harry. "Define what you mean by _chance_, please," she said icily.

"I said, don't freak out!" Harry pleaded.

"Don't give me orders in my own home," Hermione hissed. "You know Malfoy is a sensitive topic! What on earth possessed you to start high-handedly demanding that he's a decent guy?"

"Well, I never said—"

"You implied it! Why would I give him a chance if he weren't a decent person?"

"I guess you have a po—"

"I simply don't understand why you would abandon me like this!"

"No, Hermione, it's not like th—"

She stood up. "Do our years of friendship really mean that little to you, Harry?" She demanded. "So little that you're willing to plead Draco's case for him? Yes, I know that's what you're doing!" She cried in response to Harry's questioning look. "Don't play me for an idiot! What did he offer you? Money? A job?"

Harry was taken aback. "Actually," he said, slightly angrily, "I'm, as you said 'pleading a case for him,' because I think he's a good guy!"

Hermione barked a laugh. "Yeah, like a haven't heard that one before. I think there's some evidence to the contrary, don't you?"

"There's no need to be so snide!" Harry snapped, also standing. "The poor man is really infatuated with you—although I sometimes have a hard time understanding why." This was delivered in tandem with a pointed look.

"Then I suppose there's no need for you to be here. If you can't understand why anyone could ever like me." She turned heel on him, stalking towards Ophelia's room. "You know where the door is," she said over her shoulder. "Please use it. And, in future, if you come here trying to give me advice on my dating life that mainly consists of giving stalkers second chances, you needn't go any further then the doorstep."

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"Hello?" Ginny opened to door before Hermione had a chance to knock again. "Hermione, what are—ohh," she breathed, taking in Hermione's frazzled appearance. "Tell me you haven't seen Harry recently."

"Bingo," Hermione said, walking inside. "He's not here, is he?"

Ginny shook her head. "No, he usually goes to the bar after work with some friends. He probably went there after visiting with you."

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. "I blew up at him," she confessed. "I shouldn't have, but, oh, Gin, I've had such a tough week, it just felt like a betrayal. The straw that broke the camel's back, you know?"

Ginny looked puzzled at the muggle expression, but nodded nonetheless. "Come in, sit down, have a cup of tea. The kids are sleeping, don't worry. Tell me all about it."

"Well, you must know, he's touting Malfoy's horn. Wants me to 'give him a chance' or something like that."

"I don't know what's gotten in to him," Ginny muttered, shaking her head, as she took a seat at the kitchen table across from Hermione. "When he came home with this crackpot plan, I gave him an earful, believe me."

"Oh, I don't want you to fight with Harry on my behalf," Hermione said quickly.

"Of course I'm going to!" Ginny cried indignantly. "You're my friend! And if Harry doesn't know how to stick up for you, well, he'd bloody well learn!" She paused, and seemed to think for a minute. "Not," she began slowly, "that I'm necessarily opposed to Malfoy. You can date whomever you like, so long as they're good to you. It's more the principle of the whole thing—how Harry doesn't seem to be taking your emotions in to consideration."

Hermione nodded emphatically. "That's exactly it! It's not even the fact that it's Malfoy that's bothering me, I just don't understand why Harry's putting him above me, and why he's being so pushy about it."

"If I knew that, I'd unlock all the secrets of men," Ginny said darkly. "Why they constantly behave irrationally…An examination of men, by Ginny Weasley." She drew a hand across the air. "I can see it now, my name in print."

Hermione laughed. "I probably shouldn't have gotten so angry."

"It's your prerogative."

"What would you have done?"

"Honestly, it's not what would I have done, it's what did I do. I did the exact same thing as you—I shouted at him. Did he listen? No. It's as if what I say just goes in one ear and out the other." Ginny sighed. "It's awfully lonely, sometimes, feeling like no one really listens to anything you say, or cares how you say it."

"I know Harry cares."

Ginny looked up at her from under her fringe. "Don't listen to my grumblings, I'm just still sore at him. We haven't really made up."

"Gin, I'm so sorry."

"No, it's not a big deal. Just—"

"What?"

"No, it's nothing," Ginny decided. They were silent for a minute, Hermione realizing that Ginny would disclose more information when she was ready and not a second before.

Then, in abrupt reroute of the subject, "Alright," Ginny declared. "I've got to know. Do you… Malfoy…Maybe just a little?"

Hermione laughed until she cried. "If I knew the answer to that," she said, quoting Ginny earlier, "I would be able to solve all the mysteries of life."

"He's…I mean, he's not a bad looking bloke, as far as they come."

"I see him on Monday."

"You do?" Ginny cried excitedly. "What for?"

"Quarterly review."

"So…?"

"So?"

"How do you think you'll act?" Ginny pressed.

Hermione shrugged. "I don't know. I still—you know, I just don't know how I feel about him. Like, yeah, he's attractive," Ginny snickered, "but he's a total asshole a lot of the time."

"Translation: If he behaves himself, you might give him the time of day?"

"I suppose that might be an accurate if simplified depiction of this rather complicated situation."

It was Ginny's turn to laugh. "I don't understand what's so complicated about it. You're hot, he's hot, he wants to bang you—excuse me, date you—why don't you just go along with it?"

"Maybe the fact that he fathered my child?" Hermione suggested.

"Details, details," Ginny said airily. "You can go to couples therapy once you're married and work through all those subcutaneous issues."

Hermione emitted a cross between a guffaw and a snort. "Puh-lease. If anything does happen between us—and mark my words, the key word in that sentence is _if_, it would be of the purely one night variety."

"Remember where that got you before…" Ginny warned.

"Sans alcohol," Hermione amended quickly. "Sans alcohol, avec contraceptive charms."

"Well, I wish you the best of luck," Ginny said, getting up from the table. "Harry'll probably be coming back pretty soon. You're welcome to stick around if you like, I'm just going to tidy up around here."

"I'll head off… I'm still in a bit of snit about his callousness."

"Hold out, girl. He should apologize to you. His intentions were sour, even if his cause was pure." Ginny hugged Hermione quickly around the shoulders. "Thanks for coming over. You know you're welcome here anytime."

Hermione returned the embrace warmly. "Thanks for taking me in. I don't know what I'd do without you. We need to have tea sometime, talk more." Ginny nodded her agreement.

"Bye!" She called, and Hermione headed out the door. "Remember, the wards don't end 'til the end of the path!"

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Harry hadn't really spoken to Ginny since the Sunday he'd come home and talked about Malfoy instead of Ron. He wasn't sure if he childishly wanted to hold out on her until she apologized for her irrational behavior, of if he just wanted to apologize for whatever the heck he'd done wrong so that things could go back to normal again and he'd feel welcome in his own home.

He decided to settle on the latter, which is why he'd stopped by a muggle florist on his way home from work, deciding not to risk accidentally getting her some deathly wizarding plant from the shop in Diagon Alley. He payed for a bouquet of roses with the last of his emergency stash of muggle money, making a mental note to pick some up in the future.

"What's this?" Ginny asked when he walked through the door. "Is it Valentine's Day, and nobody told me?"

Harry grinned at her, the familiar lopsided, endearing expression that had never failed to melt her knees. "I brought you these. I wanted to apologize for Sunday. I didn't mean…" He trailed off, unsure of what he was and wasn't supposed to have meant.

Ginny looked at him expectantly.

Harry cleared his throat. "Gin, I'm really sorry. I love you, and I don't want to fight with you anymore."

"The flowers are beautiful, Harry, they really are," Ginny said, putting her face in them and smiling. "But you didn't have to do this. You shouldn't feel obligated to try and buy my affections."

"Merlin, I just can't do anything right!" Harry exclaimed, half-incredulous.

"No, Harry, I didn't mean it like that," Ginny laughed, pulling him toward her. "I just felt bad, I know we're on a tight allowance right now. I've been trying to watch my spending, and I didn't want you to have to deprive yourself of other things for flowers for me."

Harry leaned closer to her, planting a soft kiss on her lips. "Anything for you," he whispered huskily.

Ginny laughed, but there was a note off. She was half-hoping Harry would notice, and ask her what was wrong, but he merely continued to kiss her, with more insistency this time. She felt his hands begin to roam and was surprised at her lack of response.

She pulled away. "Not tonight, Harry, I'm sorry."

He looked at her concernedly. "Gin, is everything alright?"

"Hermione's been over tonight, and we talked for a while. I'm just tired, that's all."

"Aww, c'mere," he said, pulling her in to a hug. He kissed her again, rubbing her shoulders, and murmured in what he obviously thought was a sexy undertone, "let me help you take a little tension out of those shoulders."

Ginny tried to relax in to his caresses, but was only annoyed by his attitude. "I said, not tonight," she said a little sharply, pulling away again. "I'll see you upstairs."

Harry frowned to himself as she walked upstairs. He wasn't really sure what was going on with Ginny. Their easygoing companionship had never been threatened before.

He followed her up, and blurted it out before he could stop the words. "There's not—someone else, is there?"

"HARRY POTTER!" Ginny screeched, enraged, uncaring of the fact that James and Lily were asleep not far away. "How could you even _think_ that, let alone voice it?"

"I—I just—"

"You just _what_! One night. One night that I don't feel like staying up all bloody night while I wait around for you to c—"

Harry cringed. "I was worried! You've been acting off all month, and downright strange for this last week or so!"

"I don't believe this is happening to me. My husband just accused me of infidelity because I didn't feel like giving him a blowjob!" Ginny shrieked at him.

"Don't be absurd!" Harry bellowed. "It wasn't like I was demanding sexual favors all of a sudden! I wanted to share it with you, seeing as we haven't had sex for bordering on a month, now, and we haven't spoken in a week."

"And who's fault is that?" Ginny demanded.

"Yours! You're the one who stopped speaking to me!"

"That's because you're the one who chose Draco Malfoy over your own friends and family!"

"I don't even know what your problem with him is, anyways," Harry cried. "It's _me_ who he harassed in Hogwarts, not you."

"Oh, yeah, just go make this all about you! Just like everything else, it all has to revolve around you! Let me ask you something. If he had harassed me at school, would you even notice? Would you even know? Of course not! Because the world then, as it does now, always revolved around you! Everyone else was just a spectator," Ginny shrieked, hands on her hips, hair flying wildly around her face.

"That's not fair," Harry said quietly. "Ginny, that's not fair and you know it."

"I'm through with being fair! Damn it all to hell. You can sleep on the couch tonight." The door to their bedroom slammed shut, and Harry realized that she was serious.

8888888888888888

She saw him standing there from a ways away. He was unmistakable—the bright blonde hair peeking out from the fedora, the long, elegant grey robes that matched both his hat and his eyes, the way he held himself as if to let everyone else know they were ever-so-slightly beneath him.

Clutching her folders tightly, an anchor to the reality of work and sensible, adult things, Hermione slowly approached him. Beneath her formal dress robes, her heels clicked on the marble floors of the hospital.

"Malfoy," she said upon approaching him, holding out the folders. "The budget books."

He smiled at the alliteration. Hermione shivered, and immediately tried to hide it. The smile was a little to _hungry_ for her taste. He noticed anyways, though.

"Thank you, Healer Granger," he said formally, and then, "Are you cold?"

"No."

"How has everything been running?" He asked, after a moment of silence. "Technically, protocol says I'm supposed to subject you to a battery of questions regarding the efficiency of this place."

Hermione didn't smile at his casual dismissal of 'protocol.' "I assume those can wait until we all the department heads are present." There was another pause. Hermione started to walk, and then looked back to see that Draco wasn't following. "Malfoy! This way."

He looked surprised. "Pardon?"

"I'm to show you to the conference room."

"The… ah, I see." He seemed vaguely distracted, but nonetheless followed her fairly meekly, without making any attempts at inappropriate conversation. They walked, essentially side-by-side, but Draco perhaps a shade behind, down the white halls of St. Mungos.

Draco's presence was almost ghostly, barely noticeable, as if he placed each foot with especial care so that it made no sound. Hermione could almost forget that he was walking beside her—except, of course, for the fact that she couldn't. Every time he breathed, a soft _whoosh_ of air accosted the side of her neck, just under her ear. She could practically taste it. She imagined it was sweet, and possibly slightly minty; an embodiment of the piney smell he seemed to perpetually emanate.

They reached the door, and Draco suddenly lunged forward, grabbing the handle just a millisecond before Hermione could. She was too slow in ceasing her forward motion, and her hand briefly brushed his.

The contact was over in a matter of seconds—Hermione quickly pulled her hand back, mumbling a cross between an apology and an expression of gratitude as Draco held the door for her in a very gentlemanly manner.

She walked in to the large conference room, sporting an empty oval table, and felt his eyes rake her up and down. Upon succumbing to the temptation of whipping around, however, she found him staring directly at her face. She lowered her eyes.

"Um… I was a bit early to get you… it's only one-twenty… It doesn't officially start until one-thirty…"

"Well, that gives us ten minutes," Draco drawled. Hermione sucked in a breath.

There was another long break in the conversation. Hermione felt his presence like a thorn. He was standing too close to her, she could feel his body heat. If she moved, her arm would brush his.

She remembered the touch of before, the tingle that still resided in her palm, and wondered how it would feel to touch him again, longer, to have him touch her somewhere else. Hermione found herself glancing between the table, the closed door, and Draco, the illicit thrill of 'breaking the rules' tingling in a banished corner of her brain.

She focused on breathing, holding herself extremely still.

Draco snuck a glance at Hermione. She didn't appear to have any intention of starting a new topic, or of leaving.

He was drawn to her like a match to propane, and he knew, when combined, the result would be explosive. Nevertheless, her very presence continued to reel him in, and he felt his resistance lessening.

Hermione chewed on her lip, giving in to temptation, lost in an imagination of his lips on hers. Draco watched the motion in fascination, itching to drag his fingers through her hair. The empty table glinted seductively in the dim lighting.

Then, right when he was about to excuse himself, she spoke.

"I'm really sorry about Blaise," Hermione said awkwardly in the silence; a peace offering. "Are you two still—" she swallowed, licked her lips "friends?" Surely he could hear the way her heart was thudding in her chest, the abnormal rate at which she was breathing.

Draco smiled, appreciating her intent. "Yes," he replied. "I visited him the other day. He told me it wasn't your fault."

Hermione huffed a little at that, panic receding as conversation took over. "Well, if Blaise says so! Of course, I'm doing everything in my power to reverse it. Actually, we think he's out of immediate danger," she said brightly. "He recovered phenomenally well from the pneumonia. I've got my best researcher on it, and he's on the best medicine I could procure…" She trailed off. "Anyway, you know, we're really trying."

"I know." He looked at her, and she looked away. The emotions his nearness evoked returned full force.

"Don't look at me like that."

"Why?" He took a step closer. His arm was brushing hers. There suddenly didn't seem to be enough light in the room. In the dim, calm atmosphere, she felt squashed, trapped, paralyzed.

Hermione gulped, and then thought better of what she had initially intended to say. "Because…because, I don't know… Because I do feel like I'm responsible. You shouldn't be _grateful_, or, or _impressed _with me or anything. I should have been monitoring the whole experiment more carefully—maybe it is my fault."

"That's not how I was looking at you at all," Draco said, and she knew he was too close. "Gratitude—except for maybe gratitude to you for finally speaking to me—had nothing to do with it."

"I—I—well," She wanted to say something but she couldn't remember what. His proximity was doing funny things to her stomach. She suddenly wanted him to take that extra step, closing the space between them, locking her eyes with his own, until all her resistance had melted away in to a big puddle of objections that she couldn't even remember because they didn't matter any more.

He took the step. "I'll be right back," Hermione finally managed, wrenching herself away from the potential _situation_ and fleeing.

She left Draco standing alone, but not necessarily forlorn, or even unhappy.

Hermione splashed her face with water in the restroom, spending the extra five minutes waiting for the other directors to join them alone and wondering what kind of situation, exactly, she had been at once so desperate to encounter and avoid.


	14. Chapter 14

_A/N: Not as long as the previous chapter, but trust me, the next chapter will make up for everything. Things are going to start happening pretty quickly so BUCKLE UP! HUUUUGEEEE huge thanks to all my reviewers as always, I LOVE YOU! You were all my motivation to get this chappie up. As always, let me know if there are grammatical errors (which horrify me) and I will fix 'er up. Also, I changed the summary. Whaddya think? _

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

A few weeks had passed since the quarterly review, and Hermione still hadn't spoken to Harry. She'd had tea with Ginny several times, and even admitted some of her 'Malfoy troubles' to the younger witch. However, she was doubtful that any news of their interaction—and the fact that, technically, Hermione had taken Harry's advice—had managed to reach him at all. In fact, she wasn't sure that Ginny had spoken to Harry since the night he'd come over to her house.

That Wednesday, during her lunch break, she and Ginny had planned to grab a coffee together. Hermione decided to broach the subject then.

After they had settled at a comfortable table in an out of the way coffee shop in Diagon Alley, Hermione put down her drink. "So… I figure I should probably tell Harry that I'm sorry for blowing up at him…" She began, watching the other witch carefully.

Ginny frowned, stirring her cappuccino with her pinky. "Do what you like. I'm not sorry."

"Do you two…have a fight?" Hermione asked hesitantly.

"Well, I told you I hadn't been speaking to much since he initially told me about his crackpot plan… And after you came over, he came and tried to smooth things over, but—see, that's just the thing. It's so _Harry_. He just wants to _smooth_ everything over, so that everybody's fine. Well, everybody's not fine!" Ginny cried, and then abruptly, a big fat tear rolled down the end of her nose. "Everything's not fine…not at all…" She said brokenly, and then began to sob into her hands.

Hermione rushed over to the other side of the table, embracing Ginny. "Oh, shh, don't cry," she hummed, as if it were Ophelia she were comforting, rather than a woman her own age.

"I can't help it," Ginny sobbed. "I always thought I wanted to get married, but it all happened so quickly. And, Hermione, no one ever tells you that being married isn't fun at all! I never get to see my friends, and Harry's not around that much… Oh, Hermione, and then he does all this ridiculously stupid and frustrating, idiotic stuff and I can't help but get angry at him."

"Shhh, shhh," Hermione whispered, stroking her hair.

"And the worst part is, I honestly don't know if it's going to work out. I really don't know!"

"Don't be silly. You've only had one fight! Nothing is irreparable."

Ginny pulled back, sniffling, and wiped her nose on the back of her hand. "Sometimes I just don't know. We're not as close as we used to be."

"Ginny, really, don't be ridiculous. One fight does not a marriage break."

"Maybe I don't want to be married anymore!"

There was silence, as Ginny clapped a hand over her mouth, looking shocked, and Hermione sat back in her chair, quietly digesting the information.

Finally, Ginny continued. "I know that this seems sudden, because it is our first fight, per se, but, Hermione, I've just been so unhappy this past year…" She trailed off. "I want my old life back."

"Well, Ginny, have you thought about...other options?" Hermione asked delicately.

"Other options?"

"Like, I don't know, counseling? From what I've been able to discern, marital problems are quite common, and a lot of people swear by couples counseling."

Ginny sniffled. "Sometimes I'm not sure I really want to make it work."

"Alright, that's quite enough of all this self-pity!" Hermione snapped. "You made a commitment to Harry, and you have two children. If you're unhappy, try to change the situation before leaping to all these drastic measures." She paused, and a frightening thought suddenly accosted her. "There's not…this isn't about someone _else_, is it Ginny?"

"Well, no-_o_, not _really_…"

"Ginny, if you're seeing someone else than this is much more serious than I thought it was."

"No!" Ginny cried. "No, not like that! I would never cheat on Harry. It's just…sometimes I wish there was, or could be? You know? In Hogwarts I had so many friends, and boys were always so interested in me, but there was only ever Harry… and there only has ever been Harry. We never even had a fight when we were dating, and then everyone started getting married, so, I mean, I guess we just thought that's what we were supposed to do."

Hermione shook her head, running the back of her hand across her forehead. "Gods, Ginny," she said. "I don't know what to tell you. My life's a mess. Ophelia's unhappy at school, there's been disaster after disaster at work, Malfoy's stalking me like his next meal, I haven't spoken to Harry in three weeks, Ron's in rehab, you're having marital problems—look at us all. What's become of us?"

"I don't think it's meant to be this way. It's supposed to be exciting and fun to be grown up and living on your own. You're supposed to have loads of beaus and go to parties and drink too much all the time."

Hermione smiled a bit at that. "Well, I always knew it was going to be hard work," she said. "I suppose I just didn't expect so many personal problems."

"Do you feel like Malfoy ruined your life?" Ginny asked curiously.

"I used to think that," Hermione confessed. "I used to hate him with every fiber of my being, and curse the day he was born. But it's strange, you know? I saw him one day, just in Diagon Alley, nowhere special, and it was like this huge revelation. I almost…looked forward to seeing him again." She took a breath, playing with her long-abandoned coffee mug, searching for the right words. "It's like…he's the spice."

"The spice?"

"He's the spice to my everyday life," Hermione clarified. "Everything is sort of bland, and normal, and then Malfoy is added and suddenly I'm sweating like crazy and need to wash out my mouth so that things can go back to normal. I mean, that's an extended metaphor, but every time Malfoy enters the equation things blow up—people go crazy. _I_ go crazy."

"If that's the case, then I envy you."

"You, in your stable, comfortable life, envy _me_?"

"What you have, Hermione, what you have is what people crave! It's the tempestuous romance people spend their whole lives looking for, the by-the-novel sort of passion."

Hermione shook her head emphatically. "First of all, I have no _romance_. There is nothing about my hectic, stressful life that I would wish upon anyone else."

"Except a certain incredibly attractive Draco Malfoy," Ginny said slyly. Hermione colored.

"There's nothing between us. It's awkward and stilted, he's a total asshole and for some reason is just sort of…"

"Seductive." Ginny finished for her. "Just sort of inherently…seductive."

"I think it's a Slytherin trait," Hermione laughed. "You should have seen how Blaise Zabini tried to chat up the Healer internees. One of the sickest people I've ever seen in my life and he's cracking lewd jokes with them about storage closets."

"Did he try to chat you up?"

"Merlin, no! Malfoy is my only harasser at the moment, thank you very much."

"Is he really harassing you that much anymore?"

Hermione ran a hand through her hair. "Oh, it's all just so very stressful where he's concerned. The other day—Merlin, Ginny, I told you about—well, nevermind."

"No! You can't just do that—tell me!"

"Ugh, okay, the other day I had to meet Malfoy for the quarterly review, right? So I showed him to the empty conference room and we were about ten minutes early."

Ginny shook her head, murmuring "classic" under her breath.

"And there was this big empty table in the middle of the room, and I kept looking between it and him—and all I could think about was—" By this point Hermione approximately resembled a radish. Ginny broke out in to hysterical shrieks of laughter, causing other patrons of the small shop to look over at their table strangely.

"Oh—my—god," she gasped. "You—wanted—Malfoy—_on the conference room table_!" She yelped delightedly.

"Ginny, shhh!" Hermione hissed, turning, if possible, even redder. Ginny merely laughed harder, wiping tears from her eyes.

"Hahaha, oh, oh dear, oh Hermione, this is too much." When she finally calmed down, she looked at Hermione seriously. "Girl, you've got it bad."

"I don't 'have' anything," Hermione said tartly. "I simply, uh, am mildly attracted to Malfoy. That's all."

"Whatever you say."

"Don't say it in that tone!"

"What tone?" Ginny asked innocently.

"That tone! The one that implies you don't believe a word I'm saying!"

"Did I do that?"

"Stop it!" Hermine said helplessly. "I don't _like_ Malfoy! I just want to sleep with him!"

An elderly man sitting at the table next to theirs gave Hermione a scandalized look. She buried her face in her hands.

"Anyways," she said finally. "This wasn't even supposed to be about me. It was supposed to be about you."

"What about me? My life's boring, I prefer to hear about yours," Ginny said, with an airy affect that fooled neither of them.

"I just want you to know," Hermione took one of Ginny's hands and squeezed it, "that if you ever need anything—my couch is yours, and I'm always here to lend an ear."

Ginny smiled weakly. "Thanks. For now I think I'm just going to see where things take me…" She was silent for a moment, and then looked at Hermione. "But I'm not going to go with the flow forever. That's what got me here in the first place."

"I'm not encouraging passivity," Hermione said. "Just remember—it's never easy."

"Life," was all Ginny said in response, shrugging. "It sucks."

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Harry walked, or rather dragged, himself from his small office in to the corridor.

"More…coffee…" He groaned to himself, internally excusing the furthering of an already large addiction due to the monumentally awful few weeks he'd been having. Ginny hadn't spoken to him since "The Fight," as he had begun to refer to it, and he hadn't even _seen_ Hermione since he'd attempted to talk her in to Malfoy. Add to it all that he was supposed to visit Ron, with Hermione, in a few days, and he was in a right royal mess. "Ron'd just laugh and call them prats," he thought miserably, missing his friend desperately.

"Potter!" Someone called, and Harry squashed another groan and attempted to arrange his face in to a semblance of professionality. He turned around.

"Yes?"

Draco Malfoy recoiled as if he'd been burned. "What in Merlin's name happened to you?" He exclaimed.

"Nothing," Harry groused. "What do you want?"

Malfoy fiddled with the brim of the grey fedora he never seemed to be without. Irrationality surged through Harry like a tide, and he itched to knock the damn thing off his smug head. That is, until he spoke. "I just wanted to thank you, actually," Malfoy said, but it seemed oddly genuine.

"Um, oh. May I ask why?" Harry was slightly stumped. He was even more stumped when Malfoy broke out in a peal of deep, rich laughter, flashing Harry a decidedly carnivorous set of pearly teeth.

"You're a good bloke, Potter, you know that?"

Harry scratched the back of his neck. Malfoy stood in front of him, his face practically glowing like a schoolboy's. (Well, okay, not quite, but for Malfoy—it was close enough.)

"You want to grab a butterbeer sometime?" He asked.

Malfoy gave him an odd look. It seemed to flicker between disdain, shock, and something else, settling on a pleasantly surprised sort of neutral. "You look like you could use something harder."

"C'mon, it's on me," was Harry's response, jerking his head toward the door.

And such it was that Harry found himself, a few hours later, hopelessly drunk and pouring out all his woes to one, Draco Malfoy, ex-arch-nemesis and foe.

"There's something about you and liquor, isn't there?" He asked the other man, after pouring out a particularly heart wrenching revision of his fight with Ginny. "You seem to have a knack for getting people to open up to you by getting them pissed."

For the second time that evening, Malfoy laughed. "No, Potter, I'm pretty sure you people are just pissed ninety percent of the time."

"Of course. We're British." Harry snorted at his own joke, inhaling firewhisky. "But seriously. If you want Hermione so much, just get her drunk again."

"The same trick won't work twice."

Harry knocked back another shot. "Yeah…Maybe I should try that. Get her drunk and she'll forgive me."

Malfoy perked up at the mention of Hermione, although Harry, in his state of utter inebriation, didn't notice. "Granger? She's mad at you?"

"Oh, yeah, didn't I tell you? I spoke to her about you—like you asked… Why did you ask that by the way? That was so weird, you know, I think you lo—"

"So she's mad at you because you tried to talk to her about me?" Draco interrupted.

"What? Oh, yeah, yeah, because of that. Apparently I like, betrayed her, or something. _Women_. And yeah, that's—you know, that's why Ginny—uh…" Harry abruptly lost his train of thought.

Malfoy snapped his fingers in front of Harry's face. "Potter! You there?" Harry nodded and mumbled. "So, Granger was mad because she still hates me?"

"Nah, nah, man," Harry slurred, "I think she fancies the pants off you."

Harry face-planted in to the bar. Malfoy shook him frantically, but to no avail. He was well and truly unconscious.

The bartender eyed Malfoy suspiciously. "He's your friend?"

Malfoy sighed. "Yes, I'll see him home," he said resignedly. The man nodded, satisfied, and left them alone. Malfoy eyed Harry dubiously. "You better thank me for this later." Awkwardly, he grabbed Harry's arm and shrugged it around his own shoulders. Maneuvering carefully, he managed to get it so they were standing side by side.

"Good thing I know where you live," he told the still unconscious Harry, and disapparated.

They reappeared on Harry's doorstep, Malfoy stumbling slightly under the unexpected weight. "You fatty!" He cried, turning on Harry. "Geez, Potter, cut out the carbs," he grumbled under his breath, essentially dragging the other man to the door.

He rang the bell, readjusted Harry, and settled his fedora in the afterthought of being presentable. The door was abruptly flung open by a furious looking Ginny. Her bright hair was sticking out every-which-way, giving her the appearance of an angry lion.

Malfoy attempted to take a step back, dropped Harry, caught him under the armpits and dragged him up, while Harry's head lolled and his legs refused to support him. Ginny watched the spectacle with a look of incredulity, before finally pulling out her wand and snapping "_Wingardium leviosa_!" At Harry, and sending him inside with a flick of her wrist.

"_What is the meaning of this!" _She shrieked at Malfoy, and he wondered briefly if she had put the _sonorous_ charm on herself. He reflected that during the middle of a large fight with his wife was probably not the best time to drag Harry home, hammered out of his mind.

"It's lovely to see you, Mrs. Potter," he said smoothly, attempting to kiss her hand. She shook him off, planting a finger firmly in his chest.

"Malfoy. I want answers and I want them now."

"It's quite simple, really. Potter here merely, ah, _overindulged._ Don't assume the worst, my dear."

Ginny raised an eyebrow. "Harry's schoolboy enemy shows up on my doorstep with my completely inert husband in tow—for all I know he could be dead—and I demand answers. How is this, in any way at all, supposed to prevent me from, as you put it, 'assuming the worst?" How could there possibly be a worse situation!"

Draco coughed delicately. "My apologies. But, with the delivery of your husband, I'll be lea—"

"Not so fast," Ginny said. "What did he tell you?"

"What makes you think he told me anything?"

"Don't try that with me, Malfoy," Ginny snapped. "I'm not Hermione, I'm not easily distracted from the topic at hand."

"Hermione is easily distrac—"

"What did he tell you?" Ginny demanded.

"Oh, just some…things…" Malfoy said airily. "About…stuff… Mostly pertaining to himself…"

Ginny pinched her nose, shaking her head. "Merlin, Harry never could keep his mouth shut—_especially_ when he's drunk. He told you everything, didn't he."

"Yup, pretty much." Malfoy affirmed, smiling rather smugly. "We're pals now, Potter and I."

Ginny rolled her eyes. "Spare me."

"I have a feeling I'll be seeing you soon, Mrs. Potter." Malfoy swept off his fedora, bowing elaborately to her. "Until then."

"I'm holding you partially responsible for this!" Ginny called to his retreating back, gesturing to the still-unconscious Harry.

In response, Malfoy merely smiled.

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It was a bad idea. In fact, it was a terrible idea. She had no idea why she had said yes, why he had initially suggested it, why all of this was happening.

She had been traversing the halls of St. Mungos, checking on various wings of the departments she oversaw and conversing and consulting some of her colleagues on her tough cases—namely, a certain Blaise Zabini—when she had felt someone touch her elbow.

"Granger," Malfoy's voice said in her ear, and she stopped dead, whirling to face him.

He took a step back at her suddenness, then smiled. "May I speak with you for a minute? In _private_?" He asked, putting an almost unnoticeable extra emphasis on the word 'private.'

"What are you doing here?" Hermione asked thickly, uncomprehending.

Draco's eyes darted from side to side, and he shoved his hands in his pockets. "I came to see you," he muttered.

"What?" Hermione asked playfully, unable to resist.

He eyed her. "I came to see you."

"What, sorry, I didn't hear you?"

"I came to see you, okay?" Draco practically bellowed.

Hermione took a breath. _This is what you get for flirting! _ Her brain cried. She didn't listen. "Oh really?"

"Yes, Granger," Malfoy replied, but he was smiling now, too. "As I said, I need to ask you something."

"What's in it for me?"

Malfoy made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a snort. "Listen, is there someplace private we can talk?"

Hermione looked around, gathering her bearings. They were fairly close to the large conference room that had held the quarterly review a few weeks prior. "There's an empty room close by," she said, "if it's…urgent."

"After you." He tipped his fedora, smirking, and Hermione felt the blood rush to her face.

She in turn opened the door to the conference room for him, slipping in herself only after a quick perusal of the hall for potential busybodies. Luckily, there were none, and she shut it behind her with a sharp _snap_.

"So," she asked, leaning against the door, looking up through her eyelashes at Malfoy, "what was this _urgent_ business you were so _desperate_ to speak to me about?"

He was standing a little bit in front of her, head bowed and hands thrust into his pockets, knees hyper extended as he leaned on his toes and slouched his shoulders. In essence, he was the epitome of masculine beauty.

"I wanted to talk about our daughter," he began, and Hermione froze. The easy atmosphere vanished as her shoulders tightened. "No, no, don't do that," Malfoy cried, waving his hands. "No, I just wanted to ask about her, to—you know, know things! I don't—what I said before was in anger. I'm not going to try and take her away. I'm sure you're doing a fine job. I just had a sort of proposal for you."

"First off," Hermione said, not in the least relaxed by his spiel, "she's not _our_ daughter. She's _my_ daughter. What makes you think you have any right to her at all?"

Malfoy sighed. "Look, I had hoped this wasn't going to happen."

"You had hoped what, exactly, wasn't going to happen?" Hermione snapped.

"I hoped you would simply take pity on me, and tell me a little bit about her—let me meet her or something."

"I will do nothing of the sort!"

"Then I guess I'm wasting my time," he said, and moved toward the door. Maybe it was because he looked so dejected, or because he didn't fight her verdict, or maybe it was the memory of his smile when he told her that he was here to see her.

Hermione caught his sleeve. "Her birthday is the twenty-eighth of August, and her middle name is Cassiopeia."

Draco's eyes glowed. "Cassiopeia, the constellation? Granger, you didn't!" She nodded meekly. Suddenly, Draco let out a bellow of laughter, and grabbed her by the waist. Lifting her bodily, he spun her around. "You wonderful, crazy, wonderful woman!" He cried, laughing and turning, with Hermione laughing too and holding on to him for dear life.

He finally released her, still looking at her intently, and Hermione laughed self-consciously. "Really, I had no idea it meant this much…" She started, but Draco cut her off.

His hands were still around her waist, and he pulled her closer, lifting one to caress her face from jaw to cheekbone, ultimately tangling it in her hair. His lighthearted expression of before had deepened, and his eyes drew her in.

She was flush against him now, and he softly placed the other hand on the side of her chin, effectively cradling her face. Hermione looked up at him, blinking with her large, liquid eyes, and knew that he was about to kiss her.

And then—"Draco, no," she whispered, placing both her hands on his chest and shoving him away. He stumbled, the spell broken with the contact, and she flung herself out the door, rushing down the hallway, ignoring his calls of "Granger!"

Later that night, she would relive the moment several times, each one more agonizing than the last.


	15. Chapter 15

_A/N: Had some great dialogue with some of you this week-thanks again for your reviews! LOVE YOU ALL! And now... MUAHAHA! The chapter I know you've all been waiting for!_

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility**

"Hi," Hermione said awkwardly. She had fought with Ron before, but this was one of her first big fights with Harry, and she wasn't quite sure how to apologize. He looked tired, and had big circles under his eyes.

"Hi," he replied, with such a pitiful mixture of apology and relief that Hermione just had to throw her arms around him in an embrace reminiscent of her spontaneous schoolgirl days.

"Oh, Harry," she mumbled in to his shoulder. "I'm so sorry."

He patted her back awkwardly. "No, Hermione, I'm awfully sorry too. I shouldn't have been so pompous—I was rather an arse about it all."

"I should have listened to you," Hermione said as she finally pulled away. "Even," she added, smiling, "if you were a bit of an arse about it."

And just like that, things were as they always had been.

"Well, shall we be off?" Harry asked.

"Yes, let's. I _do _hope Ron is doing well. I'm going to be so upset if he's all sullen and angry."

"He was doing great the last time I saw him, so I can't see why it would be any different now," Harry said comfortingly. "Meet you there."

Two loud _pops! _later, and they reappeared in the entrance hall of Thompson's. A young man with the generic look of an "assistant" was loitering in the hallway, and he zeroed in on them.

"Mr. Potter and Ms. Granger?"

Hermione gave him a warm smile. "Yes, that's us."

"R-right this way, please," he said, stuttering in response to her brilliant smile.

Harry elbowed her. "Eh, you gotta be careful of your effect on people," he snickered.

"Oh, shut up," Hermione replied, giving him a shove. "I was just trying to be nice to the poor boy."

"Who you callin' boy? You're barely twenty-eight."

"I am extremely mature for my age, thank you very much," Hermione said loftily. Harry ruined the effect by snorting loudly.

"Let's see what Ron has to say about that."

"What Ron has to say about what?" The man had stopped outside Ron's room in the corridor, but Ron had flung open the door before he could knock. His hair was longer than Hermione remembered it, and he looked like he'd lost weight. But his eyes were no longer bloodshot, and the deep purple bags Hermione had begun to think were permanent had faded to a light blue.

"Oh, Ron," she whispered, feeling tears beginning to well in her eyes, and promptly flung her arms around him and began to cry. All the stress of the past couple weeks poured out of her as she clung to his reassuringly solid warmth, and his awkward patting and mumbles of "there, there," were exactly what she needed.

When Hermione was calm, and able to manage a watery chuckle at her behavior, Ron invited them in to his small room. The assistant trainee, or whatever he was, bid them goodbye, telling Harry that they should check out at the receptionist as they left.

"So how're you doing?" Harry asked brightly, plopping on the bed.

"Pretty good," Ron replied, leaning against the wall, as Hermione took the chair. Suddenly, he broke out in a girn. "Merlin, this reminds me of the good old days. All of us holed up in some dormitory or empty classroom, talking tactics."

Hermione looked at him sharply, but then seemed to relax. "You miss them a lot, don't you?"

Ron shrugged uncomfortably. "Luna says that's probably part of the problem—you know, says I've been living in the past too much, not ready to grow up."

"I don't blame you, man," Harry said. "Life's not easy, that's for sure."

"Yeah, but I… Alright, guys, here goes. Luna told me I should do this." Ron paused, his ears turning red. "Look, I'm really sorry, okay? I just never really thought that…that my actions would have consequences."

Hermione stood, laying a hand on his arm. "Ron, you don't have to apologize to us. We're you're friends, and I just want you to know we're behind you, always."

Harry coughed and sniffed, scrubbing at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. "That's right. It's good to see you doing well, Ron, it really is."

"It's all due to Luna," Ron, said.

"Luna?" Hermione wanted to know. "Doesn't she run this place?"

"Yeah, but she takes on a few patients for one-on-one counseling, too. I started my sessions just after I saw Harry last time."

"What does she do well?"

Ron laughed. "You would ask that, Hermione."

"What! I'm just curious! Is that a crime?" She cried, mock-affronted, and Harry snorted.

"So," Ron asked, changing the subject. "Did you bring me any food? The stuff here's not bad but you're not allowed seconds or anything 'cause of all the crazies."

"What?" Harry was scandalized.

"You know," Hermione explained to him. "All the people who have issues with food. They're trying to teach them normal behavior."

"Huh."

"Like Narcissa Malfoy," Ron cut in. "They're _still_ having trouble with her."

"Really?" Hermione leaned forward, interested despite herself. "What's happened to her? I had no idea she was here, too."

"She's really quiet," Ron said. "She's in my group for therapy, and she barely ever talks. I think she got really depressed when Lucius died, and had some big collapse or something."

"Is she the same snotty bitch?" Harry asked. "I've only ever seen her look like she had some horrible smell under her nose."

"Actually, she's not a bad sort," Ron replied. "She gave me some of the food from all the care packages Malfoy keeps bringing her."

Hermione snorted. "The way to Ron's heart—through his stomach!"

"But why is it nice if she gives you the food?" Harry pressed. "I thought she didn't want to eat it anyways?"

"She's just been…sympathetic. I think Malfoy had a bit of a drinking problem a while back, so she's lent an ear every now and then."

"You've been discussing your private business with Narcissa Malfoy? And she's been confiding in you?" Hermione was shocked. "And Malfoy had a drinking problem!" Her mind screamed, but she didn't say that aloud.

Ron frowned at her. "Don't make it sound like such a crime."

"No—I just… I mean, it's the_ Malfoys._"

Harry came in on Ron's side. "They're really not that bad anymore, Hermione. I saw Draco the other day actually, and we went out for a drink. He was perfectly pleasant."

"Oh he was, was he?" Hermione snapped dangerously, and Harry remembered that bringing up the delicate topic of Malfoy so soon after their argument was probably not the best idea.

Unfortunately, this didn't prevent him from defensively crying "He was!"

"Well I'm _glad for you_," Hermione hissed at him from clenched teeth. "Maybe you should hang out with him more, make it a weekly thing."

"I just don't understand what your problem is with him!" Harry cried. "Hermione, open your mind a little bit!"

Hermione jumped up. "My _problem_ with him? _Excuse me_? Do I need to justify myself yet again?"

"No, look, I was just saying—he's never been anything but polite to you. Doesn't he deserve a little bit of credit for that?"

Ron was looking between Harry and Hermione with a expression of confusion. "Alright, what happened here?"

Hermione sighed, rubbing her temples and letting out the breath she'd been holding. "Malfoy asked Harry to talk to me, and he did, and I lost my temper."

"Partially deserved," Harry confessed. "But—you should have seen him, Ron, it was almost pitiful."

Ron had a curious look on his face—a sort of pained indecision—and for a moment, Hermione felt the irrational hope that he would back her up, guns blazing, and begin bellowing at Harry about "fraternizing with the enemy." But the Ron of fourth year was long gone, and instead this new, mellow Ron sighed and shrugged. "What can I say? He visits his mum a lot, and treats her well, and nods to me when I see him in the corridor. Those are the highest marks of merit a man can achieve in my book."

Hermione shook her head emphatically, exhaling through her nose. "I'm not so sure," she said dryly, but allowed Harry to change the subject.

"Next time we come, we're allowed to take you off the institution grounds!" He exclaimed. "Where do you want to go?"

Ron perked up at the mention of getting out. "Take me to a restaurant for a proper meal! And for Merlin's sake, drag Ginny here by her hair."

Harry and Hermione immediately went silent, and Harry rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Um, that may end up being necessary," he said quietly.

"What do you mean?"

"Things…between Ginny and me…aren't great right now…"

Hermione stood up. "Harry? Ron?" She said softly, not wanting to disrupt the confessional atmosphere. "I've got to get going." Harry started to stand but Hermione waved him off. "No, no, you stay, I've just got to go pick up Ophelia." She pecked Ron on the cheek. "I can't wait for next time," she told him. "Keep it up, keep seeing Luna, you can do this!"

Ron punched her shoulder. "I'll miss you! Bring me sweets next time."

Hermione threw back her head and laughed, then headed out, leaving the two men to talk.

He found her in the coat room. She was getting ready to leave, heading to her mother's to pick up Ophelia. Ophelia had spent the day there, in a break from the usual routine, and she was eager to be on her way and see her.

"Granger," he said, and his voice was heated.

She pulled away from his touch like she had been burned. "Malfoy. What are you doing here?"

"My mother," he said, as if that answered it, and when she looked at him blankly he elaborated. "She's a patient here, too."

"Ah, of course. If you'll excuse me, I'm actually running a little late…" She trailed off, trying to move around him, but he somehow managed to keep getting in the way.

"Let me walk you out."

She shot him a look from beneath hooded eyes. "No thank you, I'd really rather not." He grabbed her arm.

"I insist."

At the risk of making a scene, Hermione pulled her arm childishly. "Malfoy," she hissed, her voice beginning to climb in octaves as a tiny twirl of panic settled in the bottom of her stomach. "Malfoy, let go of me!"

"I have a proposal for you," he said, as they begun to walk towards the door, Draco relentlessly, Hermione resentfully.

"I don't really think you're in a position to be making demands," she bit out.

He whipped her around and pinned her to the side of the brick building, pressing too closely. "That's funny," he drawled. "Because I could say the same thing about you."

"What do you want? Why are you doing this? Why can't you just leave me in peace?"

Draco leered. "You didn't seem so opposed to my presence a few days ago."

Hermione tried to ignore the funny things his proximity was doing to her, once again. "Fine," she breathed. "What's this _proposition_?"

"Really Granger, don't be naïve," he murmured, and began to lean towards her. His gaze was intense and hungry, and Hermione knew he was going to kiss her, knew that this time he wouldn't stop, wouldn't pull back, wouldn't reign himself in. And—somehow—she knew she didn't really want him to. She closed her eyes in surrender, tired of fighting, tired of it all.

His lips brushed hers, surprisingly softly at first, and she shocked herself (and Draco) by leaning in to the kiss. His arms slipped down from their position on either side of her head to encircle her, pulling her more tightly against him.

For a moment, Hermione allowed herself to relish in the sensation of being held and treated as if she were a delicate porcelain doll. She soaked in the feelings of warmth and safety that Draco's embrace provided, closing her eyes as he deepened the kiss. Reality hit abruptly.

"I can't do this," Hermione gasped, tearing herself away from it all.

"Granger," Malfoy began, the anger in his voice mixing with another tone. "Granger, wait!"

She didn't wait, she ran.

She could feel her ill-clad feet slapping on the pavement stones of London, and found herself wishing desperate things—that she were better shod, that she were a runner, that he had not looked at her that way, that she had not begun to run.

"Forget you were a witch?" He asked, slightly out of breath, but not as breathless as she. His hair was deliciously mussed, his fedora tilted and his scarf haphazardly tossed about, and Hermione found herself momentarily entranced.

"Ye-es," she replied slowly, though she had long forgotten to what she was agreeing. A single flake of snow fell between them, and both their eyes followed it as it made its way to the pavement, where it instantly dissolved.

And then there was silence. It was the soft, dewy, spongy sort of silence, the kind that absorbed all the external noises and conversations, blanketing the two caught in it so that the only sounds were the harsh echoes of breathing. Hermione's gasps echoed noisily, she felt her cheeks and lungs burning, her hair flying loosely about her face in the wind.

"Granger," he said, and she felt his eyes on her.

"Stop looking at me like that," Hermione whispered, turning her head away, feeling her senses becoming saturated yet desperately trying to prevent the inevitable.

She felt him move closer to her, felt herself react to the proximity of his body; they were two entities, magnetically attracted, always repelling and finally _colliding_.

His hand slid through her hair, and he felt the shudder that went through her as his fingers brushed the nape of her neck.

"Malfoy, no," she murmured against his lips as he kissed her, but it was she who had raised her lips to his. She would have pushed him away, if her hands had not betrayed her, fingers running through his silken, flaxen hair, dislodging his fedora. "Don't," she whispered again, helpless in his grip.

But her hands were cupping his face, and his elegant fingers found her hips, pulling her closer.

He did.

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She watched it happening—as if it weren't right here, right now, in this absolute instance—an instance of absolutes—in which it could be nothing else. No one could walk in his overdramatized swagger, with the grey fedora tilted just so, to expose a lock of silvery hair. It was a man's hat, yet something about that hair—so purely white and pale, so soft and delicately glistening—something about that hair had always struck her as uniquely and singularly (absolutely) feminine.

The taste of him was still on her lips.

He sauntered in to the room—he tasted like cherry and chocolate and mint, an unusual combination that somehow still spelled bliss—looking pleased and rather generally smug, and it occurred to Hermione that she was sprawled across Draco Malfoy's bed, completely naked.

She stood up.

He was wearing a fedora indoors, which was decidedly unusual, though with Malfoy one could never really be sure, but it was the hair that drew her eyes like a beacon. Rather belatedly, embarrassedly, and angrily, Hermione realized she wanted to touch it again, feel it run through her fingers like a whisper of water.

Instead, she turned purple and screeched "How dare you!" at Malfoy, glaring at his fedora as if it represented all the evil in the world.

"You don't like the hat?" He enquired mildly. This, unfortunately, was not the right thing to say.

"No!" She cried, enraged. "I _hate_ the hat!"

And instead of inspiring an equally angry reaction, or any reaction whatsoever, Malfoy merely raised an eyebrow at her and smirked a little.

"Last night," he drawled. "Last night was fun, Granger. We should do it more often."

Hermione shuddered. Malfoy zeroed in on the motion.

"Funny… you certainly didn't seem to find me so repulsive when you were screaming my na—" He was cut off abruptly as Hermione stomped up to him and attempted to slap him across the face.

"Not so quickly," he hissed, grabbing her wrist.

She twisted in his grip. "I have a _child_ I have to get back to. _Responsibilities_. Normal adult things that _you_ wouldn't understand."

"Not for lack of trying," he shot at her.

"You would make a terrible father. The last person in the world I'd want my child to look up to would be you."

His face hardened, as did his hold on her wrist. "Do you normally make a habit of sleeping with men you think are terrible people?" He enquired lightly.

Hermione gave a little huff of outrage, and raised her other hand to whip across his face.

His hair fell in to his eyes, shaken loose from the gel by their arguing.

It didn't register that it was her hand reaching up to brush the lock away, her wrist that he caught, his angry, hurt expression immediately softening, melting just as all her muscles were, from only the merest brush of his hand.

It didn't register, that is, until it was too later, and her fingers were threaded through his, and he was using this to his advantage, slowly drawing her towards him. Their eyes locked, and this time, as she felt her feet involuntarily stumble forward, this time she didn't say no.

"Hermione," he whispered, and covered her lips with his.

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Don't go," he said, and there was a tone in his voice that could even have been called pleading.

"I have to," she said, brutally, quickly, pulling on her discarded stockings and shoving her feet in to shoes. "This, us, you—" her normal eloquence failed her, and for a moment she simply gesticulated wildly, feeling as if she were floating in midair. "It can never be," she settled with, and turned once more to go.

He moved forward, cutting off her exit. "You misinterpreted that statement as a request," he growled, holding up his harms to block the doorframe almost childishly. "I won't let you leave—not like this."

"Yes you will," Hermione breathed, suddenly feeling the icy tendrils of fear. "Because, you love me."

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Draco Malfoy couldn't sleep. He saw her big, brown, doe eyes, her softly curling hair, and heard her voice echoing. _Because, you love me._

His pillow was too hard. He plumped it, considered calling for a house elf, dismissed the notion, and kicked off his comforter. It got too warm in his room, at night, with the door closed. He despised his bed at the manor. Fervently, he wished he were back in America, back in his cool flat looking over the ocean, with a salty breeze at night.

Where _she_ wasn't around to haunt his thoughts. _Because,_ she said, _you love me_.

"Fuck this," he said aloud, sitting up. He chugged the water beside his bed in a single gulp, slamming the glass back in to the table. The air felt sticky on his skin. He stood up.

A glance at the clock showed that it was nearly three in the morning. Draco frowned. Tomorrow was Monday, and he was expected early at work, as per usual.

_Because,_ she had said, brown eyes big, _you love me_. He shuddered.

The manor grounds were cool and dark, the grass damp between his bare toes. It must have rained at some point, while he was tossing in bed, unable to find the peace of a dreamless sleep. Sleep evaded him; he was haunted by a living dream.

Her hair, so dark and soft, skin so pale and fragile. He remembered the exquisiteness of it all: the blue vein of her eyelid, the crystalline hue of her skin, the delicate brush of her hand on his arm. _Because_, her voice raspy, hoarse, desperate, _you love me. _

Draco ran a hand through his hair, turned his face up to the cloudy sky, scrunched his pajama bottoms so they didn't drag in the dew-covered grass. He was Draco Malfoy, one who did not usually carry through impulsive acts such as late night moonlit strolls across the manor grounds.

One who did not, should not, fall in love with beautiful, brilliant, muggle-born witches who remembered him only occasionally, and vaguely, with a hefty amount of distaste.

He was rude and arrogant, accustomed to having things his way and having people eager and ready to please him. Rarely was he scorned, sporadically was he disciplined, intermittently was he appreciated.

_Because_ you_ love_ me, she had said, to him, in an epiphany of wordplay, and it was utterly correct.

There was some sort of rationale, a vague method behind the obvious madness, but even that was translucent at best, and very probably opaque as muddy water. Love blinds, someone said, but what they should have said is that love befuddles, confuses, alters, bewitches. He couldn't really pinpoint it, to remember why, or how, or where. All he knew was that, at some point, lust had triumphed over logic.

This was still Draco Malfoy, the one and only, and very much the same. He was pretty much incapable of admitting, even to himself, the possibility that perhaps, out of sheer irrationality, he had made a mistake. If not a mistake, a misjudgment, a misnomer, an error in the manner of his proceedings.

He had fucked Hermione Granger, physically and metaphorically, and now he felt a little bit guilty. _Because you love me_, she told him, straight up, and yes, probably because of that.

The breeze blew against his thin pajamas and he shivered in the chilly air. "I think I'll be able to sleep now," he told the night, but it didn't seem to be quite enough. He had to admit it to himself, to the world, if not the woman. "Because I love her," he finished.

He slept.


	16. Chapter 16

_A/N: Alright, you can kill me, summer caught up with me. BUT THIS IS THE SECOND-TO-LAST CHAPTER! OMG! WE'RE ALMOST THERE! You guys all ROCK, HUGE THANKS, and the final chappie will be up soon. LOVE!_

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

Ron lay on his bed, looking at the ceiling.

_We've been having some issues_, Harry had said, almost casually, but Ron hadn't known Harry for, like, twenty years for no reason.

"God, twenty years," he muttered absently to himself, momentarily distracted by a fly buzzing around his head. He watched it for a moment—small and black, the kind that liked to dart around and settle, allow you to creep close and then zip away just before your hand landed with a resounding smack. With no apparent effort, he plucked it from the air like an errant quaffle, crushing it in between his fingers. He missed quidditch.

_Some issues_, Harry's voice echoed in his head. What did that even mean? Hermione had clearly left for a reason other than what she gave; she had wanted to give them time alone. Didn't she know by now that men, especially Ron and Harry, didn't talk about _feelings_? What did she expect them to do, drink tea and pour out their hearts to one another? Actually, probably, yes, knowing Hermione.

Ron smiled fondly, remembering all of the times Hermione had cried, and he, at a complete loss when confronted with evidence of emotion, had frantically offered her tea in an imitation of his mother.

For Harry to have even mentioned it, albeit casually, meant they really must be having problems. How bad? Ron could only guess. He tugged at his hair. Ginny could be willfull and immature—actually, she was most of the time. She was the youngest, after all, and the only girl in ages, and she had been spoiled rather atrociously. But still, she had loved Harry. She had loved him _so_ much, with a schoolgirl's passion and intensity, and he was hard put to imagine that it had suddenly disappeared. Everyone has occasionally arguments with their spouse, and moans about them occasionally, but wasn't marriage all about trying to work it out?

"Something bothering you?" A dreamy voice interrupted his thoughts, and Ron looked up to see a pair of large blue eyes hovering in the doorway.

His face lit up. "Luna."

The corners of the eyes crinkled, and the rest of Luna Lovegood glided into view. "You didn't answer my knock," she said, her voice retaining its breathy, dreamy quality even when speaking about the most mundane of details. "So I thought I'd just poke my head in."

He patted the side of his bed. "You know you're always welcome."

"Of course. It's my hospital, after all." Ron laughed, and she sat down beside him, barely ruffling the sheets. He could have attributed it to the fact that she probably weighed as much as a bird, but there was also a certain ethereal quality to her movements—as if she simply floated everywhere—that seemed to cushion her presence in general. "Now tell me, has a snigglewort gotten you?"

"Probably," Ron said dolefully, smothering a grin. "Is this a question as a Healer, or as a friend?"

Luna looked at him for a long minute, eyes huge in her small face, blond hair hanging loose around her shoulders. Her hand moved to lightly touch his, and Ron didn't flinch away.

"As a friend."

"You know, of course, that Harry and Hermione came to visit. Well, Harry told me he's 'having some issues' with Ginny." He let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. "What does that even mean!" He cried, sitting up, suddenly angry and frustrated. "How can they be having _issues_? They were supposed to be in love! They were the couple everyone wanted to be, the golden boy and girl, the two most perfect people on earth!"

He ran a hand through his hair and scrunched the other one in to his face, pressing against his eyes. Luna watched him intently, correctly gauging that now was not the time to interrupt.

"It feels like—Merlin, Luna, it feels like the whole world is crumbling. Is this what being an adult is supposed to feel like? I hate it, I hate this, I want to be a kid again. Hermione's in love with Malfoy, Harry's fighting with Ginny, I'm in rehabilitation with Narcissa and you're my Healer, what next? George is shagging Pansy and Percy's taking ballet lessons?"

Luna let out a hiccup of laughter, shocking Ron in to silence, as she proceeded to laugh until she cried. "Percy…doing…ballet…" She managed to gasp in between shoulder-shaking bouts. Ron watched her ruefully, finally cracking a grin of his own. When Luna managed to get a hold of herself, Ron had calmed down.

"That was rather unprofessional," he teased, the twinkle in his eye belying his words.

"I did tell you I was listening as a friend."

"So, what's your opinion?"

"Well, as a Healer, my opinion would be to distance yourself from the problems of others, and focus on your own." She held up a hand, forestalling any protests from Ron. "As a _friend_, I would merely impart my wishes of good faith in whatever is best for all parties. I can't offer you false condolences or hope, only my dearest wish that everything will turn out for the best."

Ron moved his hand so that he was holding hers, and gave it a squeeze. "Thanks," he said. "I don't even know what I want anymore. I suppose you're right. I just want everyone to be happy."

"It's very difficult to see something—or someone—you've always perceived as infallible, become fallible." Luna observed. "But you have to remember, in the end, we're all only human."

"It's depressing," Ron grouched, wriggling back in to his previous lying-down, relaxed position, but even to his own ears it sounded petulant.

Luna nodded sagely, and then deftly changed the topic around. "Is this a fly on your fingers?" She asked, drawing his hand between her own, and rubbing off the smooshed fly.

"Erm…yeah… it was bothering me."

"You snatched it out of the air?"

"Yeah…"

"And didn't wash your hands?"

Ron laughed. "I was deep in contemplation, as you could see."

Luna smiled warmly at him, and he felt his heart skip a beat. "Luna…" He said softly, voice trailing off as he drank in the sight of her.

She really was kind, this tiny woman with large eyes and long hair. He smiled back at her, and without quite knowing what he was doing, interlaced his fingers with hers. She continued to smile at him, eyes filled with warmth and trust, and he slipped his other hand behind her neck, pulling her face down towards his. And there, with a curtain of shining blonde hair separating the two of them from the rest of the world, he softly touched his lips to hers.

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Draco Malfoy was not frantic.

"Hello?" He called rather wildly, hammering on the door of what he was sure was the Granger home. It was slightly past seven on a Monday morning, and he was lost as to why they weren't home. He had woken up after a brief respite of dreamless sleep, determined to see Hermione. She wasn't at her flat—that he had determined by breaking in after unsuccessfully knocking on her door for half an hour. (Hey, he might be clean now, but he _was_ Draco Malfoy, after all.)

He was just pulling out his wand and preparing to break in to _their_ house when the door was abruptly pulled open by a rather severe looking older woman. She blinked owlishly at him, and the fact that she had clearly just rolled out of bed did nothing to allay her imposing appearance.

"Yes?" She said, and managed to practically sniff it. At slightly past seven on a Monday morning. Draco suddenly understood exactly where Hermione had learned her bossy, haughty manner.

"Um. Hello." He stammered, briefly taken aback. "You probably know who I am. I'm Draco Malfoy," he managed to say with a slight flair, amending for his earlier hesitation.

"Hmph!" The woman sniffed again. Maybe she just had a cold. "Young man, please, explain to me why you are standing on my doorstep at this ungodly hour, and why you have awakened me, my husband, and very possibly some of the neighbors with this horrendous racket?"

That would be a definite no on the cold.

Draco tried a smile. "So, you haven't heard of me?"

"What in the world does that have to do with anything at all?" Hermione's mother—for that was who it had to be—snapped.

"Hermione doesn't talk about me?" Draco asked, crestfallen, and her face softened ever so slightly. "I—I'm in love with your daughter," he said, and she sighed.

"Why don't you come in? I'm sure Steve has already put the coffee on."

Draco gratefully accepted her offer, and followed her indoors to the cozy house. He looked around curiously when her back was turned, trying to absorb everything. This is where Hermione had grown up, where she had become the woman he now knew. This was where the secret years of her childhood had passed, where she returned every summer during the school holidays.

It was small, with still, colorful muggle photographs decorating practically every surface. Hermione's mother did not seem like the type to tolerate clutter, so it must have been her father who had carefully placed every dusty photograph in its frame. The furniture was in warm colors, and the floors were hardwood with heavy, soft carpets. The staircase was another rich wood, with no carpet, curling upwards to the bedrooms, and the kitchen was a neat, white tile with a shine that spoke of daily moppings and scrubbings with a toothbrush to reach the crevices. Posters of teeth and memos on the evils of sugar for the gums adorned a white-ish cabinet-looking thing, and he remembered that her parents were some sort of muggle healers that dealt specifically with teeth.

The parents themselves were everything and nothing like Draco had expected. Steve was tall and lean, looking like he had never quite outgrown the awkward teenager stage of all elbows and knees. He had his daughter's soft brown eyes, and what hair he had left spoke of the thick curls that adorned Hermione's head. A familiar sparkle emanated from him—the same fresh-faced glow that Hermione seemed to permanently possess was clearly learned at her father's knee.

Her mother, whose name Draco later learned was Helen, was shorter, and generally more petite. Her hair was sharply blonde, and hung around her face in soft waves that did not resemble Hermione's ferocious curls in the slightest. She was, Draco inferred, the fountain from which Hermione had drawn her intensity and resolve. However, slight lines around her mouth and crows feet around her sharp blue eyes spoke of many hours of laughter and large, dazzling smiles. Which, when he was finally privy to one, he realized had been where Hermione had received hers. Steve was soft-spoken; Helen was strong-willed and utterly unafraid to reveal it. Despite this, they appeared to have a complete partnership, moving in tandem with the other.

In a direct contrast to his own parents' marriage, Draco observed the way they worked with and around each other with fascination as Steve efficiently served him coffee while Helen laid out some fresh fruits and served Steve a bowl of oatmeal.

"You know, you really should add milk to that," she commented, as Draco sipped his coffee. "Less staining on the teeth."

Maturely, he resisted the urge to bare his pearly whites at her in a growl. "I've always taken it black, thanks."

Helen shrugged, sipping at a mug of what looked to be tea, heavily milked. "Suit yourself."

"Hermione takes hers black as well," Steve told him from across the table, eyes warm and far away. "Drives Helen crazy."

Draco had leaned forward eagerly at the mention of Hermione. "Really?" He asked curiously, momentarily sidetracked. "I definitely had her pegged as a cream person, or at least a caffe misto type."

Helen sniffed. Steve laughed. "She used to, but then started putting in less and less milk until she finally just took it black. Something about 'enjoying it more in its natural state.'"

"Nonsense, if you ask me," Helen added. "Not that she did. I would have talked her out of it. You're a dentist too," she eyed Steve balefully, "and a fat lot of help you were. Encouraging her…oh, the stains on her teeth…" She shook her head despairingly, and then fixed Draco with an interrogating gaze. "Now, young man, you have yet to tell us why, precisely, you showed up on our doorstep at so ungodly an hour."

Draco coughed. "Do you know where Hermione is?"

"What's it to you?"

He leaned forward. "_Do you know where she is_?" He demanded, his voice resonating with intensity.

Steve sat back in his chair. "Why should we tell you?"

Draco took a slurp of his coffee, wincing as the hot liquid burned his tongue. "Because I love her," he choked out. "And somehow she's disappeared, and, and she doesn't know. And I've got to tell her," he finished lamely. "She's got to know."

Helen raised an eyebrow. "Not a very moving declaration," she said dryly. "The boy who got our daughter pregnant—oh yes, believe me, we know all about that," she said in response to Draco's shocked look, "shows up, demands to know where our daughter's got to, and then sort of halfheartedly declares his love for her." Her hair fell forward around her face as she sipped her tea, and Draco could not read her expression.

"Look," he began. "All I know is that she's not at home, and she's not with Harry and Ginny, and she's certainly not in the mental ward with Ron, or with anyone else I could rustle up and question. You're her parents. Even when no one else knows where she is, you've _got_ to know. And you've _got_ to tell me. I love her. How else can I say it? It's not like I asked for this to happen to me, not like I wanted to fall for the one person on this planet who truly hated me. I didn't want to have dreams filled with swinging curls and Hermione's bell-like laugh, but shit happens, you know? I'm past the point of denial now, I know it's not some infatuation and it sure as hell isn't going away," he laughed, rather crazily, "and if you don't mind terribly, I'd like to be able to make some sort of dramatic declaration to her, about how I can't possibly live the rest of my life without her, because if I had to I think I'd go even more insane than I currently am."

He stopped. He realized that he was breathing rather hard, and that his eyes were overbright, and he was standing in the Granger's small, neat kitchen, gripping his coffee cup like it was his one anchor to reality.

"I love her!" He cried, trying to drive the point home. "I need her like air, I can no longer live without her in my life! And if you don't tell me where to find her, I'll track her down myself, even if it takes me twenty years! I want to spend the rest of my life bickering with your daughter, and having her yell at me for stupid stuff that I've done. She makes me want to change, to do good deeds, to be someone completely different, just for her, and at the same time, she accepts me as I am."

There was silence in the little white-tiled room.

"Well." Helen finally spoke. "Not the most original declaration I've ever heard, I suppose,"

"He did draw rather heavily from Jane Eyre," Steve agreed.

"—but you'll do."

Draco slammed both of his hands down on the table, rattling the dishes. "So, you know where she is?" He asked manically, looking back and forth between them.

"Not exactly," Steve said.

"But we have a very good idea," Helen finished for him.


	17. Chapter 17

**The Travesty of Human Fallibility **

Initially, Harry had convinced himself that Ginny would have to crack soon. After all, no one could maintain complete silence towards their spouse for a period of time longer than a week. Right?

Apparently, however, Ginny had a superpower, (most probably gained from her mother) and it was the ability to utterly ignore another human being. She devoted herself entirely to the kids, her family, and visiting her friends. He had barely seen her around, and had been sleeping on the sofa ever since The Fight.

And then... Then he had been returned home, passed out, in Draco Malfoy's arms. The yelling that had occurred after that incident had been in a decibel Harry hadn't known existed. Ginny had literally gone batshit crazy. But she was his wife, so she had to forgive him eventually. He went about his business, and tried to ignore the fact that he was being ignored. Ron hadn't even had any useful advice for him.

It was a Tuesday, that fateful sort of day, when everything in his formerly quiet life was sort of turned upside down. In later months and years, he would compare this day to the one on which he had vanquished Voldemort, for it held that sort of residence in his grand scheme of things.

He opened the door around eight, starving and tired, desperately hoping to find at least some cereal and milk lying about where he might quietly and quickly eat it. Ginny was sitting at the kitchen table with a lamp on, a piece of parchment and a quill in front of her. Like Harry, she had never quite grown out of the old Hogwarts ways of doing things.

"Hi," she said, looking up, when he came in, and her expression was uncharacteristically serious. Harry's pulse began to thud in his ears. "I'm glad your here." He swallowed, hard, praying that her next words would not be what he knew they would. "We...need to talk."

He sank in to the chair across from her as his knees gave way, briefcase hitting the floor with a thud. His throat was too tight to form any words, so he merely nodded.

"I...Harry." She made as if to grab one of his hands, and hold it in her own, but cut off the motion before it was completed. Harry's own hands felt like lead. "Harry, I can't do this anymore," Ginny said softly. His kids were asleep upstairs while his wife waited up for him with a small suitcase, to tell him that she was leaving him. He felt like his head was going to fall off. His collar was constricting, and he was having trouble breathing.

Ginny's long, soft, red hair fell over her shoulder, and with a graceful, practiced motion that she probably wasn't even aware of, she neatly flicked it back over her shoulder, to shine in the lamplight. Harry could only watch in a sort of fatalistic trance, as she straightened her shoulders and tried again.

"I'm going away for a while. I'm going to stay with my parents, maybe a few year-mates, do a little traveling, maybe try and find myself. I...I won't be coming back."

Harry blinked. She wasn't even crying, she didn't show any of the emotion that he felt, the tearing feeling that was currently in his chest, cracking his ribs.

"The kids?" The words, and their detached, cool tone surprised him. He wouldn't have thought he was capable of such a feat.

"Tell them I love them," Ginny whispered, and then she was gone.

Harry thought the pressure in the room would crush him. There was a distant roaring in his ears, and his palms were sweating. He ran his fingers through his hair, feeling it standing on end.

The house was quiet. Ginny was gone, the faint scent of her flowery shampoo lingering in the air. Harry remembered the amortentia in sixth year, and how it had carried that particular perfume, accurately divining one of his heart's desires.

He flung his forehead on to the table with a _crack_, feeling his glasses break and not caring. It was only as he slammed both fists on either side of his head that the tears came, racking his shoulders until he felt like a leaf blown helter-skelter in the wind.

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Hermione had been dozing on the couch of her small villa when the knock came. It startled her—it was almost midnight, and while Italians enjoyed a late dinner, midnight was late by anyone's standards. She lay down the book over which she had fallen asleep (some things never change,) and shoved her feet into slippers.

"Coming," she called softly, aware that Ophelia was sleeping somewhere above her. "Uno secundo!" She didn't bother with spyholes or bolt-chains, but simply flicked on the outer light and threw the door open, belatedly aware that she was wearing rather old sweatpants and a tank top—not really clothes for company.

Her worries were abruptly cut off, by the fact that none other than Draco Malfoy was standing in front of her.

"You were right," he said, and she realized that his hair was mussed, and his fedora was missing, and his jacket was dirty. "You were right, you were always right, and I was wrong."

She blinked, still silent, still uncomprehending of the fact that he was here on her doorstep, in the last place he was ever supposed to find her—and that she was glad, and possibly even a little bit relieved, that he had.

"Maybe you'll never understand why I did it—" He began, but she interrupted.

"I do."

"What?"

"I do—understand, that is."

"I love you," he said simply, suddenly, spreading his hands helplessly. "I always have, always will." It was a confession in the rawest sense of the word; he was offering her a piece of himself with absolutely no idea how she would react.

The tight feeling in her chest abruptly dissipated, and Hermione let out a heavy breath she hadn't known she'd been holding.

She thought back on the years of anger she had hoarded, the decades of pain she had nursed against the man standing—rather hopelessly and forlornly—on her doorstep. She remembered all of the crazy things she had done, all of the irrational and melodramatic things she had screeched at him in the throes of righteous rage. They'd had terrible fights, saying horrible things, and wounded each other cruelly, neither giving any quarter.

And later, she knew, as she lay in his arms after allowing him to kiss her senseless, they would apologize for all of it. And his soft words would do more for the bruises than the strongest balm or magical anti-inflammatory cream.

She shifted slightly in the doorway. "Would you like to come in?" She asked, a little shyly, and a little hesitantly, but to Draco Malfoy in was like an invitation to heaven.

"Yes, please," he replied, and stepped inside.

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It was a Sunday. Hermione had been persuaded to come back to London (it wasn't really very hard) and she and Draco were splitting their time equally between her flat and Malfoy manor. Everyone had begun to whisper about the possibility of an engagement, but for the moment, they were satisfied. Hermione had discovered that she hadn't even taken half of her accumulated vacation days during her brief foray to Italy, and so she and Draco had taken a few days in her flat, with Ophelia at her parents' house, to spend some quality time together.

Ophelia had taken to calling Draco "Nuncle," just like Ron and Harry, and it gave Draco that tight, warm feeling in his chest whenever she smiled.

They had dropped by to cheer Harry up—Ron bringing the butterbeer and Hermione the cards and distractions. It was going to be just them, but somehow Draco had gotten wind of their plan, and when he offered to bring chocolate he was in. Hermione still wasn't sure how Luna had figured out where they were heading—it wasn't as if she were exactly endowed with the gift of perception—but she didn't mind.

They were all sitting at a little card table in Harry's living room, looking out over the meadow. The skies were gray and cloudy, every so often spitting rain. Hermione and Draco were playing Harry at gin rummy, laughing every so often at Draco's deliberately inept attempts to cheat. Ron and Luna, long bored with the tiresome, repetitive game, had retired to the playroom with the children, holding hands. Draco had his arm around Hermione, and she was snuggled against him, eyelids beginning to droop.

"It's too bad, really," Harry was saying to her. "You were our last hope, the last lifeline of humanity, our walled, unbreachable fortress."

"What?"

"In the end, even you couldn't resist. Even you, Hermione, even you fell victim to Malfoy's charm."

"And don't forget my dashing good looks!" Draco threw in, smirking as only he could.

Hermione smiled a little, and shrugged sleepily. "It's a travesty," she said. "The travesty of human fallibility."

**THE END**

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**ATTENTION: For those of you who feel there are some loose ends in this story...scenes yet to be seen... THERE WILL BE A SEQUEL! I am in the process of writing it, but it will be a direct sequel to the events and characters of this story! Here's a little teaser to get you excited: **

_Ophelia's been kidnapped, Draco and Harry are on the run from a manic ex-Death Eater sect, and Hermione and Ginny are left to pick up the pieces. But guess who's here to help? "Just call me Mr. Wonderful," Blaise Zabini says smoothly as he sidles into the room. HDr, GWBZ. _

**FINALLY: HUGE THANKS to all my reviewers, and everyone who has stuck with me through the finish of this. It was your positive and encouraging feedback that kept me from letting this story fall by the wayside. Review and let me know what you think! Much love, and see you soon for the next chapter of Ophelia's Odyssey. Good luck to everyone heading back to school soon!**


	18. SEQUEL

The SEQUEL: The Certainty of Human Unreliability, is now available on my profile!


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